The Far Side of Glory
by TheUnfunnyHumerus
Summary: Humanity is no longer an orphan among the stars, but its quest to reclaim its home is fraught with thorns: divisions old and new, terrors forgotten, sins lost to time. Yet though ten thousand years may pass, the stars still cry out for remuneration. And it shall come with fire. Published under other names such as: XenaC (also me)
1. Prologue: The Last Flight

_**Author's Note:**_ _If you were wondering why everything else got deleted and rearranged in the span of maybe an hour or so, this is why:_

 _It has been pointed out to me by some friends in Sushi, Swordomatic and DougTBX (thanks for the guest review!) that I lack a concise introduction to the state of botes in what should be a Kancolle fic, and...well, they are indeed correct. Hence, this. Once meant to be side-lore, now upgraded to the status of actual mini-chapter._

 _For the uninitiated, there is another version of this on Sufficient Velocity by a fellow called_ _ **'XenaC'.**_ _We are one and the same man - the latter nickname just happened, tragically, to have been taken. So I decided that a cute Okami avatar and a punny name would serve._

 _So, I hope you enjoy you stay! And as always, leave any and all comments as you wish. I'd like to think I can take some crap - feel free to put me to the test._

 _==[]=[]=[]==_

 **The Far Side of Glory**

 **Prologue: The Last Flight**

So it was that the death knell of a god was not any great bell's toll, but a whirr and a click - the last of many that came before.

The tiny bombs lining the heart of the cavernous reactor room did not look like they might slay the divine. But they knew it well, for in a time before the stars were any more than a dream they had themselves been the tools of divinity gone mad - of men who had thought themselves gods, masters of the lives of so many others.

As then, so now, and far too often for it.

But this time would be different. She would make sure of it. Had made sure of it.

With her own two hands, the purple ghost-fire at their fingertips trembling from the exhaustion of flesh and soul alike though they were, she had summoned each -hundreds in all- forth. It was fine work. Perhaps even her best yet, and she was not one who lacked for practice.

Her little ones had aided her much in that regard. Barely the size of a finger, they would not even have passed for the tiniest of children, but even many little hands made light work. Each clung to their place on the walls, working to adjust the placement of each deadly payload.

Almost done now.

The scroll in her hands she closed with one of the last few ounces of grace her body still possessed, before tucking it into the hip holster she wore only when she was _like this._

Then she tapped her transceiver.

"Emerald Dream, this is Sparhawk-1. Package has been successfully delivered."

It was not a lie. After a fashion, at least. But when all the works of man's fashioning failed, the work of inhuman hands would have to suffice.

" _Sparhawk-1, acknowledged. Return to the ship. We need to get out soon, they're almost onto us."_

She did her best not to allow the relief to get the better of her.

For what ship ever failed to take comfort in her Admiral's voice? And what more for one so composed, even while staring down what might be certain death?

But now was not the time for relief. Now was the time to repay that calm, that trust that they -no, she- would complete her mission.

The last of her tiny fairies gave her a satisfied thumbs up before leaping off his perch and onto her shoulder, dissolving into motes of light.

Crew re-assembled. Time to go.

"Acknowledged."

The first left foot forward on the road back was bone-deep pain itself, but she took it all the same. Then she stretched out with her right. One step by agonized step, she dragged each foot before the other. Down the halls she had memorized, every turn, every nook and cranny transfigured by twisted alien metals emanating the same maleficent heartbeat, pulsing with a dim crimson corona of light.

 _Hatred._

 _Anger._

Each throbbing spasm bore down on her like so much dead weight, causing each foot to tarry a little longer, causing her back to bend a little more. It robbed, stole, hollowed her out where there was already scant little left.

 _What have you done?_

 _Why do you fight us?_

 _Why do you defile your own flesh?_

She did not grace such questions with replies, but merely girded herself with the answer she knew. The only answer she could know - the one she could feel in her bones, in her soul, that this creature, this monster was no fellow of hers. Not with a million lives that lay between them in blood grudges, and more besides were she to let it go free now.

Simple fatigue proved her greatest foe, a graceless grind of willing spirit against weakened flesh in which the latter must come out the unenvied victor. For even anger's armor could grow heavy, the act of using its warmth to fight off the growing, gnawing cold become the very burden it was meant to lift. To complete a journey required ten thousand steps. To fall, but a single stumble. And there so many ways to stumble. Each footfall could not but be heavier than the next, each demanding more care, more strength.

The growing silence only made it worse. Her work in the reactor room had been accompanied by a symphony of death in which the thunder of guns of all sizes were the least terrifying instrument. Screams of terror and agony had followed the sounds of gnashing teeth and metal being rent asunder, and every so often a spasmodic shudder ran through her as she felt something unspeakable tunneling through the ground. Yet they had been her guide in the encroaching darkness.

A sign that somewhere in this madness her allies fought still, holding off this ancient goliath and the inhuman spawn that crawled forth from its depths. That she was getting ever closer to that somewhere. That even now it was within reach.

Now those tiny sparks were fading fast, the din of distant combat give way to a gnawing cold and the ever-oppressive voice that rang off the walls above and the ground palpitating under her feet, growing ever louder and ever closer…

...until the last of them was gone.

"Emerald Dream, I might have a problem."

" _What's happening down there?"_

"Hostiles are barring the path to the hangar. Friendly defensive defensive lines are-" she checked once more, hoping against hope. "-nonresponsive."

" _Make that two of us. We're taking heavy fire. It's getting hard to stay within kissing distance of this beast!"_

It did not require saying. She could _see_ it, with eyes that were and were not hers all at once: the shattered remains of the once-mighty fleet under cover of which they had boarded this behemoth. Its remains strewn were across space like a cosmic playground ruin, toys of something at once far greater and unimaginably malevolent. And though the enemy was wounded -even now mortally so, though none but her could know that- they were closing in on the _Emerald Dream,_ hemming it in on every side.

Just as they were closing in on her.

 _You will not escape._

 _We are many._

 _We will find you._

 _ **Found you.**_

Only instinct saw her diving out of the way as the ground opened up, the fissures vomiting up shards of flooring that missed her by inches as they ran jagged-legged through the earth. But there was no evading the ravenous roar that erupted from every new orifice in the steel facade, echoed moments later by a fell chorus of the same.

Then one by one, _they_ came forth. Their eyes -far, far too many eyes- danced like ethereal flames in the gloom, conspiring with ambient light to illuminate only tiny sections of their twisted forms at a time. But it was enough. She would even consider it fitting. For Abyssals were one and all creatures of blood, fire and shadow.

And there were far, far too many of them.

"I correct myself. I have... _problems._ "

Reaching behind her, she unclipped both her scroll and its seal. With a flourish she unfurled and held it out in front of herself as a bulwark against the coming storm.

She was stretched thin, but far from defenseless. If they wanted her corpse, they would have to pay for the privilege.

" _You had best hurry. If we're going to blow this thing, it's going to have to be soon!"_

"Soon..." she muttered, the words almost a whisper.

For a moment she considered it. That somehow, some way, she could break through the leaguer that was being set on her. She could fight her way to the landing craft, and from there back to the _Dream_ and freedom - all in the timeframe of _soon._ Before the ravenous horde devoured that ship -her ship, her crewmates, her _Admiral_ \- alive.

And then one of _them_ stepped out of the shadows, parting the small sea of eerie miscolor not so much with its size as with its presence, and the thought fled.

"Belay that. Emerald Dream, prep for exit jump."

" _Sparhawk-1._ " There was confusion in that voice. Hurt. Pain. She hated that, and hated that she had been the one to cause it. Hated that it had to be done. " _What are you talking about? You-"_

"-would rather none of you be around when this thing goes off."

Even at a distance, she knew that this must be the commander of their fleet. That might before which the others could not but be cowed, that sheer force of will that radiated off the being was unmistakable. As was the leisurely manner in which she tossed what was once the ruined upper half of a soldier's body to a side as she approached.

A single flick of her wrists launched a wave of human-shaped photon scattershot that coalesced mid-air into a dozen sleek, single propellered airframes. In one time they were called _shikigami_ , and in another the Type 97 Torpedo Bomber. In her hands they were both, and she had nicknamed them _Warflight Hawk_ on that very first day when she had discovered them all those years ago. They had served her well since then, in both many a secret battlefield she found herself in and in the callsign that was her veil. Now she summoned them forth for one more flight, one more attack run.

At this distance, they could not miss - nor did they, each one of their torpedoes making the point blank one way trip right into the creature's face.

The impact washed over her. She leaned into it, allowed it to push her back - and her backpedaling became an outright leap the instant a snaking mass of chitinous flesh scythed through the smoke, catching nearly half the flight she had sent out in its wake.

" _Sparhawk-1, status report! We lost you for a moment!"_

"I'm alive." Tearing the next words from the lump in her throat was nothing short of herculean. "But I will be plain - only one of us can leave this place. And it won't be me."

Of that much she was certain. Because of course it could not be so easy - of course that _monster_ would walk through the wrack and ruin that had taken its fellows by collateral alone as if drinking in the first rays of summer, the smile on its face was faint but vile, its eyes contemptuous.

 _ **Weak.**_

 _ **Did you think that would be enough?**_

She found it in herself to crack a wry smirk.

Oh, they had no idea.

" _...Is there anything more we can do for you?"_

"Live, all of you." A damp wetness spread up her left shoulder. She did not look down, clutching the scroll in death's own grip with her corresponding hand. " Live on, and tell them that the 1st Arcadian Gaunts once fought here. Tell them that we did so bravely, and that because we did, _Leviathan Alpharius_ will never again take another life."

Only her narrowing eyes stopped her voice from cracking, and then again barely.

"Send my regards to my sister. To your wife, too; I hear she is expecting?"

" _Yes. A girl."_

"Wonderful. You...will tell her our story, no?"

The dark tide surged forward, compelled by a single commanding scream of pure rage. In response, she brought the AA guns at her waist to bear, their muzzle flashes stark amidst the darkness as they mowed the foe down.

" _Aye, that I will."_ The chuckle was bitter, and the pause that followed may as well have been a physical wound. " _It was an honor serving with you, Sparhawk-1-, no, Izma."_

"And to you, Admiral Imamura. Sparhawk-1, out."

She had always wanted to do that at least once, she thought.

Grabbing her helmet with her good right hand, she unlatched and tossed it away, freeing at last a head of long, raven-black hair. Might as well. They were almost onto her now, despite the best efforts of her gunnery teams, and there was little that mundane headgear she did not even need would do against them.

Not that it mattered.

"20th June, 1944," she began, reciting a date none but her remembered. "The last flight of the _Izumo Maru._ Here she lies - but do not mourn her. For she lived full, died brave…"

The trigger words curled on cracked lips. Purple flames whipped all about her and the scroll in her hands, the remainder of her air wing taking shape in its embrace as the bloodsoaked platform strained to breaking to hold them all at once.

 _Top this one, sister._

"...and she was true to herself to the end."

Then she let them fly.


	2. Chapter 1: Distant Sparks

_**Author's Preliminary Note (14th December 2016 - because I realize that I need one): I have recently been informed that the presence of this fic under what seems to be another name on Sufficient Velocity might have been a source of confusion for some people.**_

 _ **Fear not, for this man, XenaC, is as much I as I am he. We were merely the unfortunate victims of a tragedy known more commonly as 'sorry this username is already taken'. I apologize for any inconvenience caused by this seeming doppelgangerism. Thanks a lot to my man XWingExecuter for pointing this out to me - it had completely slipped my mind before then.**_

 _ **...and now that that's done, enjoy the story! Feel free to leave comments, reviews, whatever, and don't be afraid to be blunt. No plant ever grew large without taking some crap first. Or so they say.**_

 _==[]=[]=[]==_

 _"From the moment we became aware that the stars were our orphanage, our hearts were turned inexorably homeward. Many were the ships that bore much peril to seek the lost System of Sol and its home-worlds. And humankind being as it is, it was but a matter of time before we found what we sought._

But if we had but known what we would find there..."

 _\- Excerpt from 'The Megalith Annexes', Foreword._

 _==[]=[]=[]==_

 _"...And whither fathers and mothers sow,  
So shall sons and daughters reap,  
for deep on the far side of glory  
the twilight of man doth sleep."_

 _\- 'Otsuge'*, translated  
from the Archives of the  
Silver Chrysanthemum,  
author unknown._

 _*(Revelation)_

 _==[]=[]=[]==_

 **The Far Side of Glory  
Chapter 1: Distant Sparks  
**  
 _~The wind of space is my wind, my everlasting wandering~  
_  
Reiko Imamura blinked.

Then she stared at her cabin ceiling, and the glowing panel reading _02:25:06_ above her throbbing head.

 _~A ship that flies the skies is my ship, my uncontainable soul~  
_  
But alas, all the fury in two bleary, sleep-deprived eyes would not move her alarm to mercy.

Nor did it hide the fact that it was the _second_ of two alarms placed five minutes apart.

Grunting, she smacked the snooze button before shucking off her bed covers. Half rolling, half-stumbling in the dim light, she narrowly avoided impaling herself on the doorknob in her struggle to reach her desk, one of two desk-locker pairs that occupied the left side of the room.

"Real smooth, Ray," the room's second occupant said from the upper bunk of the bedframe they shared, tossing the words over her shoulder and the rusty red hair that cut off there, "how about you try not to wind up dead next time we reveille?"

Reiko snorted.

Helen Balzac smirked in response.

"Very funny, Helen."

"Any time."

"Whatever."

Rolling her eyes, Reiko suppressed a sigh as she turned around to glance at the readout on the otherwise blank screen of her small Personal Tactical Array. _[1] Missed Call: Bridge.  
_  
"Bridge called."

"Sure they did, Captain Obvious."

"Ha, ha. Did you take that one?"

"Yeah."

"So? Is the border going to explode in unholy fire some time in the foreseeable future?"

Helen laughed.

"Naaah. Captain just wants us up on bridge in ten is all. The usual, no big."

This time, Reiko did sigh, running a hand through her hair as she turned back around to face her friend.

 _No big. As usual...can't believe it's been four months of this.  
_  
Four damn months, and she was no longer Lieutenant Reiko Imamura, eager recipient of her Arcadian Confederate Navy wings. She was Lieutenant Reiko Imamura, disgruntled patrol flight commander of the _Vesper-_ class destroyer _Emeraldas._ Like all border patrol troops, she'd learnt to sleep light, keep odd hours, run escorts and recon every so often. She didn't hate that duty in principle.

Now if only the _doing_ wasn't so godawful...

"...actually, tell me something, Helen."

"Yeah?"

"We're the Arcadian 9th Fleet. Border guard, first line of defense. Sometimes, I wonder if it's really okay to be...you know, _okay_ , with 'no big'?"

Helen shook her head.

"Girl, we're walking a line that's been unstable since before we were kids, and you're not happy it's not swallowing ten thousand lives an hour for once?"

"You'd think it might still do so at some point, though. We read about a _civil war_ in flight school."

"Yes...and?" Helen asked. "It's also been over a _long_ time, girl. Where were you in that history class, la-la-land?"

Reiko frowned.

"No."

It would have taken a bored student indeed to not have been at all interested in learning about one of the most prominent conflicts of the post Core Sector Conflict era. An entire region of close to the rim of human space erupting into war over immense resource finds in what was now called the Ordian Belt.

Or of its victors: the Caelus Armada of Patagonius, now proud rulers of the Patagonian Union of the Rim - whose coreward border was the very one that the Arcadian 9th Fleet had been assigned to patrol.

"Then c'mon, you should be happy about the quiet."

"It's too quiet. I just don't like it." Reiko folded her arms. "I mean, we signed a treaty and called it a day. But we've got a fleet on either side of this border. Who barely talk to one another. It sure doesn't feel like we settled this right somewhere, if you know what I mean."

Well, that wasn't quite accurate. The 9th and the Caelus 6th Division did exchange communiques and routine orders daily. But she'd strangle herself with her flight suit sleeve before she'd call that _talking._ At most that was _deciding not to blast each other for the day.  
_  
"Well if you put it that way, Ray...well, I agree, but…" and at this Helen struggled with an imagined itch behind her neck, "look, most people don't think that hard about peace. It's stable hours, cushy job, do your time, get the hours, get promoted. Sounds dumb, but I'm down with that shit. Captain Helen Balzac sounds like a real good thing to be...even if I gotta wait a while 'cause the Patagonian Union's not gonna re-explode into a ton of bad news anytime soon. Works for me at least."

"But I suppose not everyone is you, Daddy's Girl. It's number one for nothing for you, huh? You gotta chill a bit, methinks. Though I'm sure Admiral Sam would be proud if he heard you talkin' all big-picture-like."

Reiko had to bite back a snarl.

 _...Do you even know him, Helen?  
_  
All that man ever had to say about their border and the neighbours they shared it with was _Accords-breaking unethical clone army this, shared Warp Nexus maintenance costs and asteroid mining rights that._

He'd always been like that. Always about the big picture. For ten years she'd grown up with video-calls thanks to the ornate peaked cap that put him in command of the 3rd Fleet. Then he exchanged that for a suit, and she saw

even less _of him. Not without those_ others _...and he hadn't even been there in person when-_

-Ow. Owwwww.

The return of the headache jerked her back to reality, followed by sweet relief as her nervous implants lost patience with her problem, releasing a rush of synthesized endorphins into her system. She took a few moments to savor that small victory. _...Bless your souls, Fleet Medical._

...And holy shit, Reiko Imamura, get a grip.

Helen was right, she reflected at length. Even a wary peace was peace. Her _problems_ didn't come into the picture.

"Anyway," Helen said, leaping off her top bunk with a loud _whump_ of legs far too heavy to be flesh. "you have one of them dreams again?"

 _Ugh_ , Reiko thought.

She must have hid the grimace on her face pretty badly. And she would've stalled, but sky-blue-eyed Helen was already folding her tan, muscular nanoskin arms across her broad-shouldered chest. Herr cocked eyebrows were an unflappable statement of the _answer-my-question_ variety, with just the slightest threat of physical intervention in case of reticence.

"...Yeah."

She wasn't even going to try. A five-foot-seven human going up against a six-foot-two auggie would never end well.

And it was the truth. Maybe it was the stress, or her mood, but she'd started having disturbed dreams for the last month. Couldn't for the life of her tell what they were about. But every so often she'd wake up, her brain wailing into her skull with a jackhammer. When questioned, Helen would just raise two hands and _swear I did everything 'cept roll you right off the bed_ in protest.

In hindsight, she'd already gotten lucky twice today. Once with the alarms. Then once more when Helen took her to _only_ have a headache to worry about.

Not that Helen was a good person to talk with about that problem. She wasn't sure if her auggie bunkmate dreamed at all on the rare occasions where some shut-eye was in order.

Even as a far as the cybernetic augmentations for which the slang was named went, the redhead was an extreme case. Reiko often wondered what near full-body replacement might do to a person's mind, but she'd never found the occasion to task.

Probably never would, either. She imagined it had a good many conveniences, but there was always a story behind that kind of decision.

She wasn't sure if she wanted to find out what Helen's was.

"Maybe you need to consider pricking yourself on flax spindle, Cinderaylla," the redhead said as she walked towards her own desk and its accompanying locker.

Correction; she wasn't sure if Helen had thoughts on anything serious at all.

 _Or so she keep reminding me...  
_  
"Haha. Wrong story, Lynsomniac. I get enough good hours in, thank you very much."

"And you're very welcome too, Milady Imamura. I'll skip on the sleep though," Helen said, disappearing behind the right door of her opened locker. "Too many things to do in life."

"Better freshen up, by the way," she said in between sounds of rustling fabric. "Pretty sure you don't wanna go up there looking worse than when you hit the sack."

"I'll get over it," Reiko growled even as she felt the headache fade further into the background. It was not a full retreat; she could feel a faint second heartbeat in the right side of her head that refused to go quietly.

She peered at her reflection in the mirror mounted higher above her desk, just in case. Her eyes and hair were still brown, not green. Good, she wasn't as sick as she had felt. Or as envious. Not that her nano-mods would have let her do that, or that she expected or wanted them to. The Arcadian Confederate Navy was a military, not a charity, and legal emotion sensitive color-augs were expensive.

Okay, so maybe an opt-in for eye bag quick fixes might have been nice. Because _man, I really do look like shit.  
_  
A tap on the right corner of the screen brought it, and her mail page, to life.

 _Six new messages. Huh.  
_  
"Checking your fanmail, sunshine? Didn't you hear me?" She could feel Helen's lilac eyes boring through the locker doors that separated them. "Bridge. In. Ten."

Reiko didn't reply, being somewhere in between thought, Cosmetics Offer Street and Kendo Society News Avenue.

"...You deaf or what?"

"Yeah, alright, space mom, I got it," Reiko said with not a small amount of annoyance.

She knew she was wasting time. Getting corneal uplinks to one's Arrays was all the rage in the Navy. And it _was_ more convenient than touch-screens. But the stuff Medical had already put in her nervous and homeostatic systems gave her the willies as often as she appreciated their presence. All that _our specialized nanomachines are 100% proven to be health hazard-free if utilized in accordance with the appropriate safety protocols_ crap be damned.

She couldn't bring herself to trust one of those things in her _eyes_ , whatever 'auggies' would tell her. Even if they were red-head roommates who meant well past the vitriol they spewed from their mouths like so much gunfire.

Also, reading mails as opposed to downloading them was therapeutic. The words were banal at best. Same crap, different day, every day.

But they helped take her mind of the phantom pains that had plagued her sleep in ways the job could not.

"Just give me a..."

She scrolled down.

"...sec."

 _From: Samuel E. Imamura  
Re: Invi-  
_  
She clicked the screen off.

"Done."

"Already?" There was a teasing note to Helen's voice. "I mean, I gave you some shit, but I thought you'd wanna give them loverboys more pieces of your pretty little mind."

Reiko forced a scowl down.

"Not worth it."

Turning around, she came face to face with her roommate. Helen was already in her flight suit, which Reiko noted -with something that was certainly not envy- accentuated the fact that she was a large woman by most measures. It also gave her rare unsmiling expression a matronly quality.

"...You sure?"

Reiko placed a palm on the biometrics of her own locker, marked _Imamura (Lt.) - Flight Cmdr, AS Emeraldas_. Green lights ran down its frame, and with a hiss, it opened to reveal her own suit and helmet.

"Yeah," she said, with just a hint of a mumble this time. "Not worth it."

 _==[]=[]=[]==_

Helen threw her hands up in mock despair as they made their way down the grey travelator-lined hallways that separated the pilot quarters and the bridge.

"...So like I've been saying forever, if you're gonna read your mail like every four hours you should just get a corneal. We're in the service. We can get it, easy."

"And like _I've_ been saying forever, _no I'm not getting one_ ," Reiko retorted, flipping her helmet in one hand before fiddling with the pressurization panel on her flight suit, loosening its overwrought cling-weave grip on her body. Not that the memory nanofibres didn't fit her well. They'd fit anyone well.

Helen made a face.

"Girl, it's better than that full-face cage of ours, that's for sure! Your hair keeps your head warm, I say. It doesn't deserve to be chained up and mistreated like that!"

"My helmet keeps my head in one piece. I'd say that's important."

The real reason _why_ remained unsaid. She did not know where to find it, knew not how to wrest the words from invisible hands that bound and the gilded cages that stung her, cutting her off from her sea of stars.

Then her mind turned to earthy causticisms and the moment was as a rainstruck heat-haze.

"For me at least, 'cause I couldn't say the same about your metal head. We're hooked up to the bird when we're in the hotseat anyway. Your point?"

"Do you always have to be the square, Straight Laces?"

"You get to call me a square once you outscore me with your _tricks_ , Easy Mode."

Helen scowled at that jab.

"Aw, come on, that one's not fair. Not everyone was born with a silver flightstick in their hands."

"Wasn't it a _golden_ flightstick I won?"

"Keep talking, Top Gun. So you're big shit, big stick, big everything. Need me to prostrate myself and kiss your feet while I'm describing your many graces?"

"Do what you like, you two, but please hurry up," came a voice from further down the hallway. "We're going to be late."

 _Huh,_ Reiko thought to herself. At some point during their conversation, they'd started only keeping the all-too-familiar hall in peripheral vision, allowing the third member of their team to slot himself in there somewhere. _Little John Strikes again._

Olive-skinned, curly haired Max 'Little John' Yohanis Susanto was wrong about being late, of course. The _Vesper_ destroyer class that _Emeraldas_ belonged to averaged 160 metres lengthwise. No more than ten minutes' substandard leopard crawl from stern to prow. Certainly much less than the seven minutes they'd had left after changing into flightgear to walk.

"We've got at least four minutes, Max," Reiko said with a wave.

"Three minutes and thirty-one seconds to be exact. But I guess that's neither here nor there to the two of you."

Max didn't even look up from his own TacArray datapad. He'd at least deigned to reply, though. She'd take it as a win.

That sort of victory wasn't for Helen though, and a hungry fire was in her eyes as she marched forward.

"'Eyyy, Lil' John!" Reaching out, she hooked an arm around his shoulder and reeled him towards her, putting the 'Little' in his nickname right where it came from - an inch or two under her chin. "I see you're studying hard as usual."

"And I see that you did not do much of it," Max said, his voice even, eyes reflecting the light from the screen in front of him as they roved left and right, but not too far in either direction.

"Aw, so cold!" Helen held her free hand to her heart. "Don't be a stranger, Max! Give us the scoop, c'mon now."

Max shot her a _help me_ look, one she'd been privy to it since Advanced Flight, when the three of them had first been thrown together as Madcat Squad.

She responded as always, shrugging and faking a whistle.

He grimaced.

"I will..." and then his lips pulled into the slightest of scowls, "...once you get off me."

Reiko fought the urge to laugh. There, right on schedule: the reason why there was a pool going round the _Emeralda_ hangars concerning the two. More specifically, about whether Max would ever act like any normal guy would -and boy would they!- in his...physical circumstances before rank and duty separated them in due course.

Realism dictated that the naysayers had better odds, but her money at last went into the salty lake of hapless matchmaking tears. She'd catch him red-handed someday, Reiko told herself. Just not today.

"Alright, alright," Helen said, pulling away with both hands in the air, "you win, smart guy."

Max cleared his throat.

"To be honest, you didn't miss much. Preflight maintenance was done about an hour and a half back. All the crews and automatons are on standby as we speak. Our stuff -full gear, not the usual recon material- should be set up for final checks by the time the briefing's done," he explained. "But other than that, there's been nothing said about the _why_ , so I'm told."

Reiko quirked an eyebrow. "You were down there in the hangars?"

"Yes. In fact, I'd say everyone's on edge precisely because there's been so little saying for this much doing."

"No shit. This is the busiest this ship's -hell, any ship in the 9th's- been since we started operating with the Union," Helen scoffed, poking her in the side. "But I guess our Glorious Leader over here's looking forward to some action, ain'tcha, Ray?"

"Not really."

It was a lie, of course. Reiko Imamura was not a 'not really' person. But she could not place when or why that phrase had crept up upon her.

The sliding doors hissed as they parted to make way for their entry.

A holographic starmap in all its vibrance dominated her field of vision, displaying the present sector of space the _Emeraldas_ was patrolling: an asteroid belt with Confederate space in light blue on the left and Union taking the right in gold. Dots in much darker blue marked the progress and formation of the 9th, while Patagonius' Caelus Armada was in ochre close by. Scanners pulsed green circles throughout the map with silk-soft _pings_ , updating positional data and raising minor alerts. A loose debris warning here, solar radiation spike an hour ago, nothing major.

It was the very image of the quiet one could experience in space. But Reiko bristled nonetheless. Just imagining the exposed flanks on both sides maintaining wary silence just out of projectile lock range set her on edge.

Her shift went unnoticed by either of her teammates. But from the knowing looks she got from one hazel eye and two shimmering blue ones, she was still too far from being able to mask herself from either custodian of the bridge.

She snapped off a salute. Her squadmates followed suit, right arm over chest.

"Madcat Squad reporting, sir."

A picture perfect return salute greeted theirs.

"At ease, Lieutenant."

Between Captain Rafael Vargas and herself, the difference was certainly age. That, and whatever experiences had allowed him to keep the twinkle in his one good eye bright, his shoulders squared and his standing posture ramrod straight despite the grey streaks running down his sideburns and a curved scar through his right eyebrow that neither peaked cap nor snow-white uniform could hide.

"Got some sleep, I hope?"

Reiko nodded.

"Yes, sir."

"I don'-"

"Yes, Lieutenant Balzac. We all know you don't really need sleep," he noted with nary a rushed beat. "And Susanto? Do I have to put you in the brig for some compulsory rest _in lieu_ of running your art stream all night?"

Max rubbed the back of his head.

"N-No, sir. That won't happen again, sir."

The Captain laughed, a hearty sound.

"Good, good."

Then his expression turned swiftly grave.

"Now, to business. I'm sure the grapevine has given you some preamble," and at that he gave Helen a pointed _I-know-what-you-haven't-done-for-the-last-eternity_ look, "so we'll skip the introductions. Emma?"

"Certainly."

The differences between her and the ship's XO Emma on the other hand were much more vast. In her _Vorpal_ fighter, Reiko was cybernetically bound to the machine, yet still very much a flesh and blood alien to its machinations.

Emma was much more. Clad in a red jacket, white pants, black overcoat set that fit her waist-length blonde hair, she was the condensation of the arcanery and community that was command center busywork to a single being. The obsolescence of any additional bridge crew on deck.

She and the _AS Emeralda_ did not merely seem to be one as the pilot suits made Madcat Squad for a time. They _were_ one, a fact amply demonstrated as a mere shift of her eyes set a bright klaxon-red overlay over the map.

One that was both herald and omen.

"'Eyes Only - Classified.'" Helen was the first to get her voice back. "That deep, Captain?"

Her flippant reaction did just enough to make the atmosphere breathable, but there was no mistaking the legendary 'first rodeo jitters' in the air. True, Reiko reckoned that the slight shaking in her hand was for a different reason than in her friends'. But it was there nonetheless.

Only the Captain and the resident artificial intelligence remained unaffected, 'first rodeo' having long ceased to apply to either. Indeed, a hint of a sardonic smile tugged at Vargas' lips as he glanced at the screen.

"Patagonius has finally found cause to request our presence, or so it would seem. "

Max cocked an eyebrow. "...Our presence, sir? But they've been so..."

"... _insistent_ about handling their own business, even in shared space, yes."

Reiko frowned.

" _Insistent? Secretive,_ you mean."

"With all due respect, sir, I say silence is good. The less we hear from them the better."

Reiko shot Helen a dirty look for that, a look that was promptly ignored.

"And knowing the old men on the board," the red-head continued, "...this probably has less to do with anything like border trouble and more to do with the trade Accords we signed with them some time back. Pretty sure they don't want to get involved in all that 'Separatists this, pirates that' lawless-space business."

"I will pretend you did not just slight our...prescient leadership. Indeed it does, Lieutenant."

"So, what about those Accords again, anyway?"

"S-specifically," Max said, "we refer to Article 9 of the Revised Patagonian Accords of 992. It...states that _'all new resource discoveries including such as that involve rediscovered Warp technologies within the Lesser Ordian Belt and its solar orbit in the appropriate times of the solar cycle shall for a period of thirty years be considered under the laws of Shared Space, and both sides shall in good faith share knowledge and profits equally in the event of such an occurrence'._ "

Emma smiled.

"My, an impressive memory as always. Are you looking to replace me, Lieutenant Susanto?"

"W-well I-"

"Quit embarrassing him, Emma," Helen cut in. "I'm impressed though - we managed to put 'good faith' in there without laughing ourselves out of the room."

 _And I'm impressed you listened hard enough to hear that_ , Reiko thought. But there was truth in that outburst. Truth she agreed in.

 _Good faith. Between militant dictators who sell resource planetoids and an ocean of blood for the right to trade tech and use a clone army that would have been banned anywhere else...and a Board of Directors whose guiding rule is basically bottom. I'll eat my helmet._

The Captain's almost-scowl flattened out as quickly as it came.

"Be that as it may, they are our allies now, Lieutenant Balzac," he said, his voice gentle but firm. "I also don't remember any of us signing the petition against the Accords when they were first mooted."

"Err," Reiko spoke up, "I'm quite sure we were too young for it, sir."

The Captain barely missed a beat.

"Some of us live with our mistakes. Others clean up after the sins of their fathers. I'm afraid your fate is the latter, whatever it may imply for your duties. Am I clear?"

"...Aye, sir."

"Good," he said, and took two steps forward, looking them all in eye as they did. "This now pertains to all of you. We are among the quick response ships on forward screen duty for the next six hours, and as such this mission's execution falls to us. It is my solemn duty to inform you that upon partaking of this mission you will be sworn to secrecy with regard to its contents until they are declassified. Any violation of this secrecy will be subject to disciplinary action. Do you acknowledge this?"

"Yes, sir!"

They acknowledged in unison.

Then Vargas broke into a grin, the years fading fast from his face.

"Excellent. Now that I'm done washing my hands of you three for when you inevitably do something very, very stupid...any guesses as to what we're going after?"

"Not enough information. I'll pass, sir." Max said.

Emma gave a wry smile, one that Vargas did not match by far in amusement.

"No fun. Helen?"

The redhead shrugged.

"Sir, I'm just hoping for a nice milk run, maybe some rare resource vein or...y'know, as many as we might need. Less we see of Caelus the better. I like my peace and quiet, and the stories we hear about them don't assure me that either runs through their blood, sir."

"Fair enough, but not even close," the Captain said, letting his words linger a moment. "Reiko?"

Reiko chewed at her lower lip. There were many things that fell under Article 9. A good many of these then overlapped with scenarios that might require the Union and the Confederacy to put together a joint group, though the sizes of that group could vary quite a bit. The Captain had mentioned the deployment of a detachment from the 9th's frontal screen.

The thudding in the veins around her head advised against doing the math. She pushed through anyway.

That was five _Vespers_ and two _Bellini-_ class Medium Cruisers. Twenty-one _Vorpal_ starfighters and six _Quietus_ heavy gunship-bombers in total, not counting ship armaments or research vessels. This was no scouting group or mine survey escort. This was a strike force, one that could shell a modestly-sized colony and its defenses into oblivion by itself, move on, and hit another two before needing resupply.

But such an operation, as she had noted before, was high on Patagonius' list of things they'd rather handle themselves. She did not imagine that they would appreciate such a strike force within range of their ships, either, allies or no.

So what _other_ sort resource discovery mission would need both sides to cooperate, yet require such an otherwise unwise show of force on _only one side out of two_?

Yet Reiko Imamura was not disquieted by these thoughts. Indeed, they excited her. There was something out there. One that might give her what she sought, quell the questions without words that bubbled up inside her.

 _...including rediscovery of Warp technologies..._

"We've found a _Derelict_ , haven't we?"

 _==[]=[]=[]==_

 _'_ _...But what, one may ask, are the Derelicts of the Warp?'_

 _They are relics from a time before ours._

 _From a time before the tumultuous Core Sector Scramble that had shaped the various polities of human space as they stand today._

 _Before the reconquering of space by dint of the esoteric, faster-than-light-navigating Void Nexus Network had begun, let alone ground to a dead halt against the invisible wall where the reach of the Nexii faltered._

 _Before the gleaming Oligarchs, whose mystery-shrouded fall and relics that we are only now beginning to truly unravel began that age of discovery and conquest._

 _Before all of this - when humanity stood among the stars as equal to the gods-_

Reiko chuckled to herself in her contralto tones.

"Still, 'Equal to the gods,' huh. Sounds way too fancy for academia."

She leaned back, lacing her fingers together while pushing her arms forward, pressing her back into the ample fabric of the cockpit seat. Stretch done, she turned her eyes to the frontal section of her _Vorpal's_ three sixty canopy display, where a projection of the _Emeralda's_ AI's bemused look greeted her courtesy of its integration with her TacArray.

"Don't you think so, Emma?"

The AI glanced at her nails, a peculiar habit for a creature that would never have anything but perfect physical features.  
" _Beyond the Nexus._ Polchovich, Damien A., issue seventy-four, volume two of _Frontier Science Journal_?"

"The same."

"I have looked through his publication records on a previous occasion, and though they are short, I must say I agree with that assessment," Emma hummed, tapping her chin.

"That he sucks and that his work should never have been required reading in school?"

"Now, I will not say that. His work is important. Perhaps by little merit of his own, but he did father our present peace. A man in the right place at the right time may as well be the right man."

 _True,_ Reiko allowed. Were she anywhere but here, she would have scorned the bombastic pretension of the person who had penned these words.

Damien A. Polchovich had after all never studied a Warp Derelict in detail. Indeed the effort to get close to the very first Derelict ever sighted had been the death of the maverick Arcadian scholar, when the research ship he had been on -the _Symphonium-_ had been caught in the crossfire of a then-unstable Core Sector.

But here, at the heart of the distortions in space that Derelicts generated, she could see why he had written as he had. Why an incomplete manuscript containing one man's awed observations at his distant destination had, after many twists and turns, given birth to the century of peace that the better part of humanity, herself included, enjoyed.

Somehow, that unnerved her.

The detachments on both sides were but mere fractions of their border fleets, but fourteen ships and two science vessels was hardly a small number.

Yet they were just _so small_ compared to the Derelict, and from the distance she and the rest of Madcat Squad were, hidden in a nearby debris field, that disparity was all the more obvious.

The biggest the joint force had was a single _Gorgon-class_ superheavy cruiser, a bulky Patagonian design seven hundred metres across that looked like someone bred a cyclopean-eyed slug with a parrot-fish, then bound the spawn up in a thick nanosteel hull.

This thing on the other hand was two kilometres across, surpassing all but the largest super-ships that present-day humanity would field. Among Arcadian ships, only the _Sangrial-class_ carriers and _Wolfram-class_ capital battleships could claim to be larger. And they in turn would all be dwarfed by the yawning scar thousands of kilometres wide that the Derelict's appearance had torn into space, which even now pulsed like some living entity with flares belonging to more color spectrums than she had known existed.

A Warp Nimbus, a saturated field of the very same energies that man used to traverse space at faster than light speeds.

What lay behind that veil, in that final frontier - not of space itself, but of the liminal line between one space and the next?

Already she could see the results of many others asking that same question: various comms channels lighting up with calls for more science and labour vessels to be pulled in from both fleets to be added to the hive of activity that even now swarmed across its length like ants on an animal carcass.

Those would take a while to arrive. Both fleets were doing an admirable job of sticking to their side of the border, for two reasons.

One was the minimum distance between them as dictated by the Accords: 'twice the maximum range of a fleet's longest ranged weapons'. Which was a lot, considering the dissipation range of the _Arges_ ultra-laser cannons mounted on the Patagonian _Wyvern-class_ battleships. Or the point at which the _Trisagion_ railgun batteries that lined a _Wolfram's_ broadsides could be safely intercepted by Close In Weapon Systems.

The second was the impracticality of faster-than-light navigation -indeed, through a massed concentration of such esoteric energies. Nimbuses just barely allowed travel in at sub-light. Much of the Core Sector remained nigh impassable though more than three centuries had passed since the fall of the Oligarchy that ruled it - courtesy of that which was called _Vortex Prime_.

Such fears and others kept both fleets about ten minutes distant at full tilt. An eternity in an age where everything moved so fast.

Where the very _information_ that informed that conclusion came to her in nanoseconds courtesy of the Fleet Integrated Cyber Network -FleetNet for short- that ran through their entire formation.

Idly, she wondered what they might find. Then she discarded the thought.

She didn't want to know what either side felt they stood to gain from stripping this relic of humanity's past dry.

Or any other faction for that matter. Nanotechnology, ship propulsion, medical science...these fields and many more had seen immense advances due to the discoveries made aboard these relics of humankind's past glory.

Or so the textbooks all but crowed, only to fall silent once asked what glories those were precisely. At one time, the Oligarchs of the Core Sector were the leading exponents on what the Warp Nexus Network was and how it worked. Now that duty and knowledge was split between the three factions who co-owned what parts of the Sector were still accessible: the Confederacy, the system-straddling Vars Empire, and the United Colony Commonwealth.

The Derelicts gave them all much to say about what Ancient Man could _do._ Yet none of them had anything to say about _who Ancient Man was._ There was respect. Rampant speculation. Even wonder bordering on worship in some circles, or so they said. But the questions remained unanswered.

Could it really be harmless to take so freely of things they did not understand - and indeed things that seemed, to her mind, to have appeared at random just as the empire poised to rule the Core Sector had fallen without even so much as a whimper, their kingdom now out of reach to the rest of mankind?

 _...Just listen to yourself, Reiko Imamura,_ a little voice inside her chided, dripping the muted venom of spite.

 _Isn't this what you wanted? You were hoping for something like this to happen, and when it does, what do you do? You get cold feet. Cold feet. You're so scared. Always have been. Like an idiot_. _And you know what? That's probably why_ he _left. That's why you'll never get-_

"...was it really such a painful read, Lieutenant?"

Emma's voice took to her reverie like a hammer to glass. The knots in her brow she didn't know were there sprung loose as her dark nascent thoughts derailed.

Damn it, her head was starting to throb again.

An "E-eh?" was much eloquence as she could scrounge up in her search for the shattered pieces, at which the blonde AI giggled, a girlish sound that was not at all hidden by the upraised hand she had over her mouth.

"You made a very intense face for a few moments. I was beginning to wonder if I should apologize for dredging up some bad memories."

"O-Oh, err, no," she made out, suddenly very self-conscious. How much had the AI caught on to? "I was just...spacing out a bit. I skimmed Polchovich, frankly."

"How he would be grieved by your dismissal," Emma lamented, though a smile ghosted at the corners of her mouth even as she shook her head.

Reiko felt relief bubble up inside her.

"He'd roll in his early grave, you mean."

"They do say he was a fighter. With words, at least."

"So they say. What do you say about him, though?"

The ship AI was silent for a long while.

"I...do not like it...or him, personally. Perhaps I do not appreciate his swagger as much as flesh and blood humans might? And I say 'might'. His work was _divisive_ , as I recall."

Then an odd twinkle entered her eye.

"I also recall that you were quite eager to allow our conversation to... _diverge_ from your 'spacing out' session. I still seek an answer to that question."

 _And of course you recall..._ Reiko moaned. There was no hiding from Emma after all.

"It's complicated," she said at last.

"I see," the blonde said, her expression thoughtful. "If you do not wish for me to pry, I will not."

"I'll...tell you when I'm ready, Emma."

 _When you're ready,_ that small voice piped up again. _When will you ever be ready?_

She forced it down.

"I will hold you to that," the AI replied with a ready smile.

It was at these moments that she was just a tad grateful, callous though its implications were, that various cold cases of artificial intelligence rampancy in testing phases had all but smothered the idea of a networked fleet in the crib less than ten years ago.

She wasn't sure she could deal with the entire 9th Fleet's worth of ships knowing when she was having a phase and all being so damn _concerned_ about it.

Even so, Emma was already a formidable mass of neural networks connected to the ship's databanks, and from there the floating sea of information that flowed throughout the Twin Systems was at her very-literal fingertips. The data she could access and process -legally or otherwise- made words like _recall_ and _remembrance_ almost seem a little ridiculous.

It was another reminder that the _Emeralda's_ resident digital XO was not quite comfortably _human_.

And yet her company was relaxing; even enjoyable and charming in its own way.

Perhaps it was her innocent lust for knowledge and her frank expression of it. Or the way she seemed to reach around for the right words and only speak when she -Felt? Concluded? Resolved? It was hard to tell sometimes- that she had found them.

It was an odd touch to Emma's character. She thought it...considerate. Yes, that was the word. It also made her feel just that much more special that she was one of the few crew members besides the Captain to have taken up the AI's offers to talk.

Maybe she was projecting. Like, with enough force to send her thoughts through the sound barrier a few times over. But regardless, she imagined that the AI tried to understand her. Or simply processed vastly more data for less invested emotion in order to approximate it.

Either way, she was grateful. Her team had been a lot less helpful in that regard. Helen had made her own apprehension apparent when they were doing takeoff prep in their individual catapults.

 _"_ _The hell...this is crazy stuff, is what it is. We're gonna be looking for a damned Derelict in a Warp Distortion the size of a small colony cluster," she'd said, pointing at the place where the starmap of the asteroid belt more or less stopped and the Warp began, looking like nothing so much as a devouring plague on the dark body of space._

Max had just boarded and launched on the all-green in relative silence, which he had maintained until they had entered the area of operations. Then he had launched into a half-gush, half-rant that she'd promptly muted, leaving Helen the sole target of his unbridled curiosity.

So yes. The rest of Madcat Squad couldn't quite be counted on to absolve her embattled thoughts, being too absorbed in their own.

Which was why the frown that was beginning to form on the face of her confidante was worrying. She wasn't sure what model of AI Emma was exactly. That was way above her paygrade. But she was sure that they had been built to serve, and serve with utmost pleasantness, right down to the last line of code.

On a ship not captained by someone as against the scrapping of Project Erasmus as Captain Vargas had been, that frown might have been grounds for a rampancy audit. For Fleet Intelligence to comb her neural network for the first sign of what the Vasiliov Theory School held to be the inevitable decay of artificial intelligence.

Her training told her she should report it in the captain's place. But at this moment between moments, in a space between spaces, she could not help but be _concerned_ for the AI in its turn. In its reach for something she did not think either of them could properly name.

Something that made them kin, for all their differences.

"What's wrong, Emma?"

Emma did not startle, but her frown did not fade. In fact it only seemed to grow in intensity as she looked not quite into the TacArray that was surely in front of her, but something past it.

It took Reiko a few moments to realize that the if the AI was indeed on the bridge looking over her own comms array, she would be treated to first-row seats to the action going on at the Derelict.

"It is an uncomfortable thing to watch," Emma said.

"What is?"

"...It may sound strange to you, but this is the first time I am witnessing a scrapping first hand. I know it happens, and that it happens to all machinery after a time. It is part of the course of things."

In a show of extensive remote control over the _Vorpal's_ systems that a small part of Reiko could not help but find alarming, a zoomed-in image of the Derelict popped up on her canopy's frontal optics.

"I know this," Emma continued. "But when this alert came down, I wondered what it would be like to witness a Derelict being taken apart before my...my own eyes."

In it, several small Caelus transports buzzed around its flanks, shearing away at its pitted hull with an industrial-scale laser cutter. Similar scenes played out elsewhere all across the canopy's three-sixty display. Arcadian troops on the top deck, inspecting a set of triple cannons, their barrels blackened and warped. Research teams floating out of their transports and into the ancient wreckage through a gaping hole that had tunneled through its lower decks from starboard to port.

"And it is...uncomfortable. Why that is, however, I cannot say."

Were Emma human, Reiko would have called the lie for what it was straight away. She was no inspired genius, but it took little genius to puzzle this out. It was there, in the frenetic pace at which the AI had pinged those parts of the ship. In the many battle scars that the derelict seemed to wear in defiance even now. In the guns that must have fired till they were so twisted they could fire no more, and in the terrible wound that had in all likelihood ended its run in life.

If ships had a life, this one had gone down swinging, done its time. It deserved to rest in peace.

She was sure that Emma had made those connections.

But she couldn't say what she _made_ of them, and from the way Emma was schooling her expression back into her default neutral smile, it seemed that the AI was intent on keeping those conclusions -if there were any- to herself.

She would have asked, if Emma hadn't made the first move all too suddenly.

"I suppose that is just the pontifications of a ship with too little else to do. You need not take it to heart."

The pictures began to disappear one by one as Emma retracted her encroachment into the _Vorpal's_ systems, which only served to punctuate the sense of finality that Reiko could sense somehow, past the ever so slightly digitized inflections.

So she did not press the point. _I guess we both have things to work through._

A yawn rose unbidden in her throat.

Emma grinned.

"Or dwell on it for too long, either."

"Hey, it's only natural," she defended, a little hastily. She blinked a few times, trying to clear eyes lensed over with tears. "All this thinking is pretty tiring, you know?"

"You have also been keeping vigil for the past five hours, forty-seven minutes, seventeen seconds and counting. I believe that might also be a factor."

It was strange, Reiko thought, how the same expression could be read so differently in context.

"...are you trying to be funny?"

"Not at all. I am, however, suggesting that you consider a quick rest."

Reiko cocked an eyebrow. "We're on watch."

"And you would make a poor watchwoman at present," Emma countered. "I am aware that you have not been resting well recently."

Reiko opened her mouth, only to have it click shut again as Emma _reached_ _forward_ once more _,_ plastering two inner cockpit feeds across her canopy optics. One for each of her squadmates.

"And you are neither a fully augmented human like Lieutenant Balzac, or an artistic fanatic with a specialized chemical distribution system like Lieutenant Susanto."

The AI paused for effect. Just long enough for Reiko to recognize Helen's lip movements as half-singalong half-hum through the non-emergency mute she had on them both. And to notice that Max's various promises to the Captain regarding his art stream did not preclude producing material for it while on duty.

Well, charcoal scribbling was messy, but still better than streaming to half the system on the Fleet comms band.

"The standard-issue Fleet nanomachine implants can help alleviate your problem or remove its symptoms completely in a tight spot, but will not solve the larger problems that come with chronic lack of rest. I would advise you not to test their limits."

Reiko massaged her right temple. Or the place where her right temple would have been under her helmet. The very prospect of arguing this out with Emma was making her head hurt again.

So she didn't.

"You know this is a severe breach of privacy, right?"

Emma's tinkling laugh shattered that last defense with ease.

"If it would prevent you from being a fool, Lieutenant Imamura, I can do far more than this."

"...and if people call in while I nap?"

"I believe my lossless playback functions will tide us over while I wake you up."

Reiko sighed.

"Devious girl."

"Thank you for your compliments, Lieutenant. Now enjoy your rest."

Then the feed cut, leaving Reiko alone with her thoughts.

Or the lack thereof, really. Now released from the obligations of conversation and company, she found it hard to focus her mind on anything in particular.

She wasn't sure if she wanted to join the conversation the other two Vorpal squads on guard duty -Auriga and Corinth- seemed to be sporadically having over the block force channel.

There was also a few joint channels between Caelus and the 9th...which she wanted in on even less. Chances were that they were all taken up by the joint work taking place across the Derelict's length.

She'd just get in their way. Well, in the way of the Caelus troops at least. But she suspected they'd be bothered by anything that might interrupt their task. A task which they'd taken to with the same enthusiasm as they had in keeping the 9th out of their border affairs. Even to the extent of parking their detachment much closer than she would think was wise to the Derelict.

 _Almost like marking territory. Same old, same old, I guess._

Also, it totally wasn't her fault that the yawns were keeping it coming. Or that the light show going on in front of her was strangely calming in the its own way. Especially with the brightness on her canopy optics _turned down_ _low_ _somehow._ Huh. She didn't remember doing that. But it was nice. Kind of.

Much like the soft weight of her eyelids. That felt nice too. The way they eased down gently. Yes.

Maybe it was a good idea to just…

...just rest a little.

Yeah. Just...a bit…

 _==[]=[]=[]==_

 _It is dark._

 _Something laps against her feet. It is wet, and comes up to the knees._

 _But it is not unpleasant._

 _She wiggles her toes one by one. Teases the place at which dry warmth meets cool dampness. Feels them blend together, seep into the gaps between each digit._

 _She knows this dream. It is water. It is the salt air. It is a song of distant shore. It is darkness. It is silence. It is the void of space. It is floating. It is being. It is._

 _It should be._

 _Except...something is wrong._

 _No, there is always something wrong in this dream. She does not know the sea. She does not know the sand that lines its shores, or the song of gulls. She only knows the public pool. The artificial lake. And the vacuum of space, in which the bloom of metal and earth that was her birthplace floats._

 _That is her sea. Not this._

 _She knows this dream. She knows it is a dream._

 _But today there is something more._

 _She can sense it. Hear it._

 ** _Plip. Plip._**

 _Iron mixes with the scent of salt. It stings her eye. She tries to open them. It hurts. She tries to raise her arm to her face. Her right. It does not listen. It is heavy. Too heavy._

 _Everything is heavy._

 ** _Plip. Plip._**

 _She looks into the water._

 ** _Plip._**

 ** _Slosh._**

 _She takes a step back at the visage reflected._

 _It is_ horror. _It is_ pain. _More wound than untouched flesh._

 _And it is red. So, so red. Red stains the deep blue. Red tints the blackness. Red colors the recesses of the mind_

so dizzy

 _Her world spins. She staggers. Her feet struggle to find purchase. There is nothing. The ground is gone. It has slipped away. She hits the water, one good arm flailing. It doesn't stop the fall._

 _Her aching knees kick. She gasps for air in wild breaths. Struggles to stay awake. Stay alive._

 _But the water is no longer water. It is no longer sky. It is no longer space. No longer still. No longer peace. It is a vice grip pulling. Pulling her down. Down towards where darkness gives birth to a roiling, churning light that beats like a living heart._

 _Every pulse is a hammer in her ears._

 _An omen._

 _A beginning._

 _==[]=[]=[]==_

Reiko shot up, her head a white hot mass of agony.

Her hands flew to her face.

Her hands. Her healthy, working hands.

Hands that did not come away bleeding and bloody.

Her gaze froze upon them for a good few moments, till she was convinced that it had been a dream.

Starting with realizing that yes, she had felt metal and smartglass where her face should have been because her helmet had been on. That the moisture recycling functions of her suit were not sending her iron content warnings that might indicate blood loss, only the rapid drain of the slick layer of cold sweat that separated skin and nanofibre suit.

That by dint of these three facts combined there was no way her hands could have come away red.

And yet this was not like the _other_ dreams. She did not forget. The images did not fade all too quickly. They...had been clearer somehow. Too vivid, too real.

Like she was being told something. Shown something.

Her eyes flew to her canopy optics, ignoring the stabs of pain that ran through her brain every time her eyes darted across the three-sixty field of vision. Looking for something, anything that might tell her what it all meant.

But for the life of her, she couldn't. It was not that the _Vorpal's_ displays were lacking. They had kept up with Emma, and they were keeping up with her much-less efficient control over the cybernetic link her suit had with the plane. They brought up zoomed-in images, diagnostics, intelligence and during-action reports.

There was simply nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing that it, or she, could see.

So why didn't the spark of panic in her guts _go away?_

 _Unless…_

She took another long, hard look at the Derelict, and tried not to shudder at how the Nimbus that surrounded it reminded her of _darkness giving birth to a roiling, churning light..._

"Emma," she said as evenly as she could, as though pretending she were calm could make it so.

It was just a hunch. Not even that - it was an idle thought, and nothing more, she told herself.

That did not stop her hands from shaking.

It was a good thing that the AI could read her vital signs - Emma's image on the front canopy was all business.

"What might you require?"

"Run a check for fluctuations in Warp energies...as far as our ship sensors can take you."

"Is that a private request?" Emma asked, eyebrow raised. "I will have to run this by the Captain either way."

Reiko nodded.

"It's fine. Just...please," she said, surprising herself with the ease with which the words came. But what did she have to lose by being wrong? Embarrassment felt like a shrinking, tiny thing now.

She had to know.

"I have a...feeling about this."

The ship's AI paused, considering.

"Fair enough. I will inform the Capta-"

Then her world _lurched_ , and she was hurled back into her chair as _something_ passed over and through her like a phantom punch in the gut.

Emma's face blurred, flickered, and then the feed cut as her helmet and canopy optics died with a shriek of static.

For a moment, she was as good as blind.

Then her TacArray came to life with siren wail.

 **[WARNING: WARP NEXUS SIGNATURE DETECTED - INBOUND JUMP. DANGER CLOSE.]**

 _Impossible._ The word rang through her mind.

No, that was not completely true. It was theoretically possible to use FTL with a Nimbus as either the entry point or the terminus. It _was_ after all made of the same energies that FTL devices utilized through their link to the Nexus Network. But it was unstable, wild, untamed. Aiming had been shown to be unfeasible, the esoteric Nexus guidance systems hopelessly thrown off by distortions created within the Nimbus.

Whoever did this, they had balls. And also nothing to fear from the possibility of border conflict between Arcadia and Patagonius.

 _But who the hell would even-_

 **[WARNING: WARP NEXUS SIGNATURE DETECTED-]**

-Her optics came back on in sputtering gasps.

Then she saw them.

Nearly six _Gorgons,_ trailing wisps of ghost-fire as they crawled from the womb of the Nimbus, flanked on all sides by smaller craft: eight _Basilisk_ -class destroyers and a veritable swarm of smaller starfighter escorts.

Each one was clad in the blocky, heavy armor that was the Patagonian Union's trademark. But they were clad in grey and gold device, instead of the leaf green and black of the Caelus Armada.

 _Union Separatist 2nd Fleet, Dragonflight Squadron_ grey-gold, her TacArray display chimed.

Each one was also but a single piece of the screen that formed around the looming 'faceplate' of a single _Wyvern_ -class battleship. Its dragon's reared head and maw glowed, bathing the Derelict it emerged alongside in a sea of boiling _Arges_ ultra-laser red.

Their weapons were readied, barrels pointing toward both fleet detachments - the 9th Fleet quick response element to their front, and the Caelus ships to the left. The _Gorgons_ champed at the bit, their own prow-mounted _Brontes_ lasers tensed at full charge.

A siren blared in her ear.

She was in the line of fire.

She jerked her controls, peeling off to one side.

For an instant, the universe stopped in morbid fascination, watching reality turn on its head.

Then Dragonflight Squadron fired in all directions.

A jolt of pain ran through her ribs as she rammed into one of the arms of her pilot chair. Just in time for her to look up and watch the _Arges'_ blighted ruby light pour forth its fury.

The beam scythed through the debris field and overhead, a dozen Caelus transports vanished in its wake before boring into the AS _Artaud_ , the frontmost ship in the small Arcadian formation.

For the briefest of moments the trapezoidal _Bellini-_ class' armor held fast. But there were only so many tears the composite hull plates of its bow could weep. Only so much penance that could be enacted for the simple failure of having been taken by surprise in battle.

The laser won through, bisecting the stricken intense heat spread out sideways as it passed, igniting weapon systems and fuel alike in a profusion of blossoming death down the _Artaud's_ widening length.

Its blue icon vanished from her HUD, replaced by a grey box.

 **[TOTAL LOSS.]**

The words tasted like ash on her tongue.

Her side was on fire. But it was a good pain. Good anger. They numbed the fear, kept her from shaking.

 _Those bastards._

She tasted iron on her lips, her grip on her flight stick trembling, knuckles bone-white.

Her comms crackled to life before she could do anything, wise or foolish.

"This is Vargas, Captain of the AS _Emeraldas,"_ their Captain's terse voice broke in on the line. "All hands, Battlestation One. Repeat. All hands, Battlestation One. Fighter squads, move to intercept incoming bogies. Auriga Leader has command."

"Auriga Leader copies. Flanking now."

There was a name on Auriga Leader's Identification Friend/Foe tag. One that Reiko barely remembered. After all, she had never met Lieutenant Commander Genevieve Sheffield in person before. Closest they'd come was mining escort duty together a month or so ago. She didn't remember much about that day.

But she would remember the raw, rough-scabbed wound timbre in the voice of the _Artaud's_ flight commander.

Battle lines were being drawn across the TacArray's tactical overlay, putting the fighter group still mostly hidden in the debris field and the ones currently filing out of their remaining ships on a hammer-and-anvil flank on an approaching group of enemy fighters.

 _Solid plan. Let's do this._

Her hands slammed the _Vorpal_ into full throttle. Her vision narrowed in the rush from zero to supercruise, her back digging ever tighter into the fabric of the pilot seat.

This would have been detrimental for any pilot, if not for the cybernetic uplink from the _Vorpal_ to FleetNet, through which she could maintain awareness of the situation at large. Through it, she knew even without looking that the other _Vorpals_ were blazing their own trails out of the debris field, forming an staggered arrowhead formation as they advanced to intercept.

In the distance, their ships were on the move, turning to minimize exposure as they returned fire. _Vesper-_ classes _Emeraldas, Armitage_ and _Vrtaska_ remained unscathed. _Anrei_ and _Saint Lowell_ were on auxiliary thrust, both having been winged by a _Gorgon_ laser each despite evasive maneuvers.

Vectored thrust ports flared in unison, moving them into defensive positions around the wounded ships and their remaining cruiser -the _Rabelais-_ while taking care to give its cut-down version of the _Trisagion_ a berth appropriate for the a weapon nicknamed _'Thrice Holy-_ _ **Shit**_ _That's Loud'_.

The half-dozen ships opened up: one volley of shots streaking into the night, and then another, lighting up the darkness with plumes of trailing plasma fire and each ship's complement of projectile and beam weaponry.

Most were shot down by enemy close-in weapon systems and other countermeasures long before they could hit their targets, but one railgun volley made it through, punching right through one of those _Gorgons_ aft and amidships. It broke into three, trailing internal explosions as the pieces drifted apart.

It was a sight both beautiful and terrible to behold.

 _So this is battle._

"Liking your day yet, Great Leader?"

Helen's voice interrupted her brief thoughts as her image and Max's appeared on her screen, her earlier mute overridden by the Battlestation One declaration. The joking tone was still there, but the red-head's face was grim.

Reiko was sure she looked the same.

"Speak for yourself. Some milk run this turned out to be."

"Can't always get what you want in life," Max grunted. "And I was having fun sketching the Derelict, too."

"Just don't release that pic before it gets declassified, or the Captain will have our heads," she reminded.

"Assuming our tango partners don't take 'em first," Helen noted. "I mean, hell, have you seen those guys? They're famous!"

Max frowned.

"They're also more than twenty years _dead."_

Reiko remembered that one. Dragonflight Squadron had been a famous Separatist ship group that had met its end in the Battle for Patagonius, where much of the Separatist had been destroyed trying to surprise the Caelus Armada at the heart of their strength on the 5th of July, 991.

Or so they were led to believe.

 _...were they truly lost there?_

 _And if they were, who are these people?_

Good questions - but not ones they were at liberty to answer.

 _Way too much going on._

In good news, the unknowns were avoiding conflict with the Arcadians for now, throwing up what was probably a cloud of reactive armor chaff from the way their shots were having trouble punching through it.

In bad news, they were now turning to put the Caelus detachment out of the fight for good. The Caelus _Gorgon_ was by some miracle still up and running, but its own destroyer complement was down to two _Basilisks,_ one of them listing heavily. They needed help and they needed it soon.

Good news: they were in place to prevent that from happening if their interception proved successful.

Bad news: that meant beating the swarm before them.

Twenty one _Drakar_ fighters, seven _Ogma_ sub-light torpedo bombers was the final count FleetNet gave. Stock early Civil War Patagonian starfighters.

And they were _fast,_ faster than thirty year old rustbuckets had any right to be. FleetNet was being forced to revise its calculations on when they would hit engagement range at an alarming rate. Even that was assuming that their obvious strategy -a textbook bog-standard blitz run with the said sub-lightspeed torpedoes- was being executed with the unguided _Stormhammer_ variant of that torpedo class.

That was one assumption too many, considering the events so far.

"All Squads, this is Auriga Leader. We're expediting."

 _Expediting_ , Sheffield had said.

In fighter pilot parlance, _expedite_ could only mean one thing.

"Assume sub-light blitz formations. Launch on my mark."

Helen whistled, while Max shifted a little in his seat.

Nonetheless, all of them moved into their positions at the rear of the eponymous vertically-staggered diagonal formation.

The plan was simple: get in front of the enemy, unload all weapons to one side so as to avoid hitting each other, get out. Turn, come in for another round. Rinse and repeat till sure of victory. In other words, when everyone else was dead. Or you were, whichever happened first.

This also meant a double dose of chems being released into her system to deal with the punishment she was about to dole out to her body. That made three in a day. She was going to feel that one later.

But not now.

 _'_ _Now' is payback time._

All-green acknowledgements ran down their formation, _First Flight_ , answered by those from Tiwaz, Zenith and Striborg Squads - _Second Flight_.

"Mark!"

Then the stars themselves melted away.

If she was reliant on FleetNet before, she could barely see on her own power now.

But it was enough: she could see the shark-like _Drakars_ fanning out to recapture their namesake, realizing what was happening. She could see the boxy _Ogmas_ speeding up, maintaining course as best they could.

Too slow.

 _Too late._

She thumbed the activation on her _Dearborn_ micro-missile launchers, accelerating as they fired. Criss-crossing tracer-lines streaked across the left side of her displays as she shot past their formation, barely missing her.

One member of Corinth Squad was not so lucky, a series of shots catching the _Vorpal_ dead center and reducing it to a roiling ball of fire.

The shower of homing missiles struck harder, tearing into the enemy formation with a vengeance. Almost a dozen red blips faded from her sensors.

"Whooo baby!" She could hear Helen bellow.

Max's reaction was a fist-pump that managed to look unenthusiastic.

She was surprised she even noticed that: the victorious whoops of her fellow pilots all felt faded and soft against the wild beating of her heart and the bile threatening to jump out her throat at the sudden deceleration she made to turn.

"Good shooting!" Sheffield barked. "First Flight, reform! Second Flight, fire!"

Fire they did. Their own missile pods blossoming smoke and flame, the _Vorpals_ of Second Flight unleashed a torrent of steel and grey-orange contrails at the enemy.

Less of the Separatists fell this time, or as easily. Their spread of fire and countermeasure deployment was tighter, their reactions faster. As expected of the elite. Two more _Vorpals_ were struck by their gunfire, their blips going dark on her TacArray. Missiles found themselves beating against carefully deployed walls of reactive chaff, the premature explosions painting the surviving starfighters in the colors of sunset death but sparing them its touch.

The remaining _Ogmas_ emerged from the fray,sub-light torpedoes loaded and ready, their escorts mustering about them.

Right into the arc marked 'Naval Interdiction.'

 _Out of the frying pan…_

Reiko allowed herself a tiny smile.

 _...into the fire._

The formation's full range of CIWS obliged them, opening up on the starfighters.

And it was a sight to behold.

Nevermind the fact that the Separatists had limited their attack vectors in order to close ranks and lay down good fire against the blitz. Every pilot knew their way around AA. It was in their blood. Their pride.

But one could be forgiven for thinking it wasn't so if they saw the way in which FleetNet -in which _Emma_ \- just ripped into them. For every defeated missile, two more would take its place. Planes evaded one line of cannon fire only to run into another. Sub-light torpedoes, launched too early, were met dead on with pinpoint strikes from kinetic weaponry and the _Vespers'_ own supplies of reactive armor chaff well before they could accelerate to full speed.

The closest any of them got was within fifty kilometers of the _Emeraldas_. A web of cannon fire cut into that, sending its death throes rippling against the surface of the destroyer, but otherwise failing to damage it.

"Good work, Emma."

She meant it. She couldn't think of an instructor who wouldn't have had to give the AI a perfect score.

"Yes, I believe this was a satisfactory way of kicking the hornet's nest, Lieutenant," Emma said, her face popping back up on her screen for the first time since the blackout.

Her ever-present smile gave the lie to the grim fact she described.

That this was only the beginning. That what they had destroyed was only a fraction of the full force the Separatists possessed.

That the profusion of angry red dots that bore down on their position was a much, much more sizable fraction of that same starfighter force. Which they had to survive against...or at least have something left to tell the tale by the time the main fleet got in range to open fire or launch their interdiction complement.

Reiko sighed. The pings were already coming out for defensive regroup. Reasonable: even sublight combat wasn't going to save them if they were this badly outnumbered. Attrition was going to be a bitch. Not to mention the ship-related side of things. They wouldn't last without fleet cover, but likewise even Emma's shooting would be hard-pressed to deal with both anti-ship and anti-air engagements at once.

"This is going to be a long day, huh."

"Technically, a long 'seven more minutes'...and probably another volley of those lasers," Max commented.

"Don't forget the important stuff. You know, like trying to not to get blown to bits. Not that that's big deal or anything." Helen grumbled. "Fuck this is gonna be hard. You got any more of that crazy trick-shooting shit where that just came from, Em?"

She could swear Emma's smile turned predatory for an instant.

"I aim to please, and shall be pleased to aim."

"Pftt," Helen snorted. "Works for me."

"And me," Max added.

Reiko didn't reply. Really, it was hard to find a good way to respond to a conversation that sounded like it came out of some absurdist comedy.

 _We're in a terrible situation, everyone's secretly scared as hell...and Emma makes puns just because._

But she supposed a little smirk would have to do.

What did the Captain say again? That they lived with their mistakes.

 _Our wishes too,_ she added silently.

 _But if we're going to go out in a blaze, might as well do it with a grin._

So she did, her just slightly-dry lips tugging sideways.

"Well, I'm definitely down for Round Two."

So saying, she gunned her engines.

"Who's with me?"


	3. Chapter 2: And a Tooth for a Tooth

_**Author's Note:** So, lots of things got moved, and I'm sorry for the inconvenience caused. Nonetheless, I hope some of the changes were for the best! _

_In other words, if you were wondering why on earth there are three chapters instead of two now but this is still the last chapter published, I have for you a one word answer - 'prologue added, psyche!' Not much else to say here; just enjoy your stay, and leave any comments you might want to after the tone._

 _*BEEP*_

 _==[]=[]=[]==_

 **The Far Side of Glory  
Chapter 2: ...and a Tooth for a Tooth**

Sensation began with shaking, slight and incessant.

Then the sudden rush of draining fluid, its smell sickly charnel-sweet rounded off with chlorine disinfectant.

A desiccating blast of wind on skin to continue the work of banishing slumber, sustained for five seconds.

Four. Three. Two. One.

Then it died down, and two glacier-melt eyes snapped open.

 **[DECONTAMINATION COMPLETED. PREPARE FOR ARMORING, ADS-8128.]**

A surrounding tube of glass receded into the floor. Graphs and words brought into new clarity stumbled across flickering screens overhead. Images of too many red dots arrayed against too few blue ones wavered with every sickening lurch that ran through the ship's metal innards.

 _Eight-One-Twenty-Eight_ spared them only a glance. It was enough. Circumstances differed, but an Armada Atlas Trooper's deployments were often the same; ever joined at the hip to movement under fire.

 _Profile, clear and secure. Target, Derelict Neo-Oort-01. Hostile Presence, numerous._

These paled in significance to the fact that she was not already suited up for such an occasion.

And to the familiar tingle of rank, keening bloodlust in the stars.

She stepped forward, her feet settling into depressions that would have dwarfed those of a grown man's. On cue, a veritable flock of crawling apertures chittered as they closed in.

A chill snaked up her back, each femtolaser-guided section seeking the points at which cold

metal and her spinal cord were to be mated.

Hydraulics and gritted teeth hissed, and they were.

The myomer exosuit enclosed her form by parts, each package of synthetic micro-muscle welding itself to a different section of the artificial spinal platform before folding over skin. Joining, molding. A foot higher, an inch thicker. Heavier. But not by much.

Her teeth chattered, anchored as she was to the vessel in its shuddering throes via the floor.

The metal limbs adjusted, undeterred.

The light of a man-made sun nestled in the chestplate section flared to life. The connection surged through her, thousand fibres with every flexing finger, thousands more for every toe that shifted.

Their jobs done, the slim apertures retreated into the darkness.

She closed her eyes, bracing her shoulders.

It would not make it any faster. Nor did it reduce the restlessness the incessant juddering had started up within her.

It itched like a dark flame with every clang of metal in the distance, every groan of grime-stained walls pulling apart, every creak of thick robot arms as they drew close, laden almost beyond capacity.

They lowered their burdens onto her shoulders, precise despite the extreme weight they bore. Ersatz muscle met metal alloy, and they were released.

Their shackles became her armor, manacles clapping around arm, leg and body alike, magnetic locks holding each in their rudimentary place. Following suit, smart metal nanites in each adjoining segment seeped forward to complete the task, joining them to one another even as they locked into place against the cybernetic interface ports on her exposed epidermal myomers.

Through that link, she knew just how many weapons her _Warlock_ armor had come equipped with, and how many bullets were in each. Still, it never hurt to be sure.

She tapped the twin fifty caliber _Rakshasa_ submachine guns at her waist. Her left hand ghosted across a _Mandragora_ Multipurpose RPG, while the right met the familiar hilt of a _Mara_ monomolecular blade.

Then it slid up to meet the less familiar weight of a _Brionac_ light railgun, magnetically held against her armor.

All loaded and ready.

Opening her eyes again, she leaned her head back into the fabric that lined her helmet, allowing her war mask to close over her face.

Then her HUD sprang to life.

 **[ARMORING COMPLETED AT 26.82 SECONDS.]**

The last of the larger metal arms fell away with a final snarl of grinding servos, and red light flooded into the tube-room through a single opening door.

 _About time._

Engaging autopilot, her legs carried her through it and forwards to her destination faster than the whooping crimson alarum lights could begin to guide her.

She did not need them. Every Atlas Trooper could trace the path to the cargo hold of their _Gryphon_ landers before there was strength in their vat-grown arms to wield even a single _Rakshasa_.

And if it ever came to be that they could not, the footfalls of their brothers and sisters would guide them.

 **[ALL UNITS, PREPARE FOR BOARDING OPERATIONS.]**

All around her they moved, roughshod armored hulks exiting the darkness of their own tubes and chambers into the light of an expansive hangar, their pace even, their steps firm, their formations lock-step.

On another day, she might have them. Allowed herself to be stamped. Assigned. Lead and be led as was the lot cast. But not today.

Today the cacophony of battle, metal bones bruising and buckling around her drowned out the monotonous _[PROCEED TO UNIT PROCESSING]_ drone of her HUD.

The tingle became a shiver, hairs upraised in horror.

Whatever it was, it would come. It always did.

She had to be ready.

A few gave her odd looks as she pushed by, but such was her urgency that no one stopped her.

None could know that fear and not duty was the devil that drove her.

Or could they? The thought came to her fleetingly as she passed another group by, their war masks betraying nothing of their own feelings or thoughts.

They so very rarely saw each other out of those metal cages that encased and sustained them.

Not even in death.

 **[ALL UNITS - PREPARE FOR BOARDING OPERATIONS.]**

Yes. Death. The cold encroaching hand she felt in the rumbling beneath her feet. The unheard agonized rattles of the _Gorgon-_ class _Cicero's Pride_ as it came apart, hull armor plates slowly but surely being worn away by damage and its own too-fiery haste.

She knew not how or what or why, but as she bent her mind to perceive that _voice,_ she knew

 _ **need cover**_

Preferably something low to the ground, something

 _ **in a corner**_

 _ **not in flight**_

 _There._ On the far right toward the back sat two _Gryphons_ with refuelling cables and stabilizing rigs still attached.

They would do.

But first she needed to be faster.

She _got faster_. Her legs kicked up a storm, reaching full sprint well before she found herself in range of one of them

Vertical take- off engines let out throaty roars as they lifted full cargoes of her fellow Troopers fromoff the ground.

 _ **no**_

For a moment she wanted to get on the comms. Wanted to yell some warning. _No, wait, stop, fly lower._

But would they listen? And on what grounds? What to say to the inevitable questions? She had grown as accustomed to this feeling of things _beyond_ as her own name. But that was also how she knew this _gift_ she possessed was far beyond even the enhanced senses of an Atlas.

Nor it did belong amidst the faceless crowd of candles burnt at too many ends. Or in her own thoughts, weighed down by

 _ **never again**_

"Hey you!"

She started, glancing to face the voice.

The voice of _Gryphon-417's_ pilot was gruff and smoke-gnarled, his youngish face scrunched into stink eye that marred his sweat-sheened face.

"Fuckin' clones," he growled. "Couldn't tell a refueling plane from a flyer if they saw one."

Then he noticed her glance, and his face twisted into an outright sneer. Perhaps it was the rictus of a smile on her faceplate. That tended to arrest attention.

"...Didn't you hear me? I said, this plane isn't ready yet-"

 _ **it's here**_

It was like someone started welding work on the hangar walls unannounced. Except that blowtorches did not melt nine inches of heat-resistant ferro-ceramic alloy in an instant. Or mow through hovering _Gryphons_ from the side like they were so many blades of grass before exiting out the other end with similar ease.

The _Brontes_ beam -small mercies that it had not been an _Argus_ \- held for a few more pulses and then dissipated, leaving madness in its wake.

Those Troopers and crewmen who had not activated the electromagnetic lining built into their suits were sent hurtling out the two new gaping holes made in the hangar. Those who did were only barely more fortunate, as the few _Gryphons_ that remained in big enough pieces careened about the hangar, walls, and floor, ploughing through those too slow to avoid them.

With one magnetic-lined gauntlet, she held herself fast to _Gryphon-417's_ wing. The other unslung the _Mandragora_ launcher, flicking the fire-select to _Surface-to-Air_ with an index finger.

One eye hovered over crosshairs that marked a whirling _Gryphon,_ all half-liquified burning metal from cockpit to hold.

The other flicked to a small motley crew of Troopers and crewmen whose desperate ambling through the chaos brought them on collision course with the doomed vessel. She pinged it once on comms for a response. And again.

Nothing.

 _...I'm sorry._

The brace of missiles that the _Mandragora_ belched forth struck the _Gryphon_ just behind and afore the wing, breaking the critically- weakened structure to pieces.

To their credit, the fleeing figures did not slow down, thus avoiding being pelted by the resultant hail of flaming fragments.

Somewhere in her head two subtracted from six made four missiles. Most everywhere else twenty- one subtracted from twenty- one men and women was zero. And as the crewmen approached and passed her without a word, their eyes averted, the berth they gave her wide as they clambered on-board, that second equation twisted _something_ into her guts.

 _ **they fear me**_

 _ **us**_

 _ **always have**_

A heavy hand landed on her shoulder.

She blinked, the voice stilled.

Three masks faced her, each clad in identical black armor with red and purple highlights. Or what should have been. She saw where faceplates had been welded shut, unwieldy filtration apparatus and all. Thighs that ended in crude blade prostheses. Hydraulics vented as the arm extension that steadied a shoulder she didn't know was shaking retracted and fell back to its owner's side.

A _Last Watch_ soldier's side.

No words passed between them. Indeed, perhaps they were no longer capable of words. But each placed an open hand to their chest and kept it there as they boarded.

The ache dulled, if only a little.

Taking a deep breath, she wrapped her hand around the refuelling cable's release catch and _tugged._

It drifted away in the zero-grav, another solemn note in the strains of comms and clearances being given through the silence of space that enveloped them ever more as the damaged hangar doors crawled open. Only three ships swam forth from its gates into the battle outside. The other un-prepped _Gryphon_ was being boarded.

The rest burned, their occupants stranded or worse.

She gritted her teeth.

They would be avenged.

There was a deathly quiet as she strode into the hold, pushing the airlock lever up behind her. The reason became immediately clear: the Last Watch soldiers had remained standing, awaiting her, and the weight of their silence had suppressed, if not outright eliminated, any challenge its other occupants might have professed.

Including that of the pilot, though that might have been his wide eyes darting between air control and his canopy optics.

Mostly on the latter, and she did not blame him.

The battered husk of another _Basilisk_ floated by _._ Another succumbed to the fires raging across its surface, ship fuel touching off and setting its entire stern ablaze. Starfighters on both sides darted in and out, firing and being fired upon.

Killing and being killed.

Gesturing for the Watchers to be seated, she increased her microphone's volume, and took a deep breath.

"Pilot."

He turned to face her fully. She could no longer see an annoyance. An oppressor.

She only saw a frightened young man.

"I did not realize this was your first combat action."

His mouth opened, then closed, the words stuck somewhere in between.

"Will you be fine?"

A pause. Then a slow nod.

"...Yes, ma'am."

"Then I hope you are ready to play the _flyer_ this time, because we have work to do."

 _==[]=[]=[]==_

" _Brontes_ heat signature reaching optimal temperature for fire," Emma chimed.

Captain Rafael Vargas' response was immediate.

"Load chaff tubes one through thirty six. Half-and-half, laser dispersion, reactive chaff. Staggered release."

"Aye. Updating firing solutions."

"Relay scatter orders."

"Aye."

All other ships pinged back _green_ , their predicted paths appearing on the ship's computers.

"Hard to starboard. Fire at will!"

He leaned deep into his command chair as the _Emeraldas_ swung away from the enemy formation, preceded by a salvo staggered between offensive volleys and defensive countermeasures.

The other ships did the same, swinging out of the line of fire as best they could.

The enemy _Gorgons_ fired anyway. Twin ruby beams lanced across space, painting the _Saint Lowell_ along the bottom of its twisting keel. Glancing shots compared to what it had taken in the first volley, when the front-facing _Brontes_ lasers had the advantage of surprise on their side, but enough to leave the bottom of the destroyer's hull bubbling and blackened.

One of the Separatist _Basilisk_ s was not so lucky, cloven in two by another volley of the _Rabelais' Trisagion_ fire and smaller coil-gun shots from the _Anrei_ that further rent its already tattered stern. Shots from the _Saint Lowell_ and the _Vrtaska_ mostly detonated against the Separatist's own air defenses, but a few ripped into the _Gorgons,_ starting a fire in one's anti-air batteries and barely missing another's laser barrel shielding.

The _Emeraldas_ and _Armitage_ on the other hand took up the thankless task of stopping return fire, sowing fire into the small forest of missiles that came surging toward the Arcadian formation.

Unlike the previous attempt, this one was only _almost_ perfect, with a few explosions rocking against the armor of their sister _Vespers._

The frown that flashed across Emma's face told him that _almost perfect_ was not as good as she would have liked.

He sighed to himself.

In an ideal world, they would have had enough firepower to minimize the advance of their enemy's starfighter complement, conduct close-in interception on incoming fire, and return the favour at the same time.

They might even have been fast enough to rescue the _Artaud,_ or prevent the distant Separatist _Wyvern_ from disgorging another pillar of red light at the remaining Caelus _Basilisk_ escort and gutting it from side to side.

This was not such a world. The unfortunate destroyer heaved its last in silence, the vacuum of space suffocating its rightful death pyre.

The Caelus' sole _Gorgon -_ the _Cicero's Pride_ 's- tally of two _Basilisks_ and one ugly black gouge-mark where a _Gorgon's_ bridge used to be did not detract from the fact that it was listing heavily from a laser to the stern, bereft of an escort, and facing a gallows hung two _Gorgons_ and _Basilisks_ each high.

One of the _Vrtaska's_ three double electromagnetic cannon turrets was out of commission from a well-aimed missile strike. _Anrei's_ propulsion continued to fall despite attempts at damage control. Formation CIWS output had fallen by an average of fourteen percent all around, hull integrity by an average of eighteen.

Considering their sensor advantage due to the lasers, these were suboptimal trades at best. Nor were two _Gorgons_ , two _Basilisks,_ and a huge flock of starfighters such easy game that there was space for old misgivings and prejudices. Yet the simple truth was that while he had been acknowledged as senior commander, this treatment did not extend to Emma as his second.

The conspicuous amount of deviation from the AI's recommended defensive fire arcs were testament enough to that.

So yes, this was hard soil for idealism.

But they were holding their own. And for now, that would have to be enough.

"Any news from the Derelict?"

"Still no response from the 16th Arcadian Guards, or from the Sheffield-Iwasaki contractors."

"And Caelus?"

" _Cicero's_ no longer updating. Comms array must have been taken out."

Rafael glanced at the Caelus _Gorgon's_ burning top deck. He'd hoped that hadn't been the case.

Last they heard from them, the Patagonians were launching lander/boarding _Gryphons_ at the Derelict in order to secure it. He agreed with the move. With the naval battle lost to them from the outset, securing a secondary objective, and one that the enemy had so far been very hesitant to damage for whatever reason, was the next best option.

There was only one problem with that plan.

"Anything from their _Gryphon_ landers?"

"Sporadic, sir. The signal's being heavily distorted by fluctuations in the Nimbus."

"Hail our fighters, see if they can serve as a relay."

"Aye, standing by."

He felt the cybernetic interfaces in his seat strain to keep him in place as the ship shuddered from another hit.

"Status, Emma?"

"Glancing hit to stern. Engine room and hangars report no damage to critical structures."

"Get damage control on it all the same."

"Aye."

"As for the relay?"

"Hold one, Tiwaz Leader is on the line…" The AI pursed her lips, parsing new information. Her eyes narrowed into slits, as though she could send the blue light in them boring across space and through all that which separated them and the foe. _Or could she?_ "...relay established from one _Gryphon-417_."

"And?"

"...it's bad, sir."

"Show me."

"Surviving elements of the 16th and excavators from both sides are holding out here and here," Emma said, 'touching' the panoramic displays and bringing visions of the battle into being. "Separatist gunships and landers have made contested entries along both sides of the ship. Caelus starfighters are engaging them to allow for counter-landings by Atlas Troopers, but they're taking heavy fire, and..."

Emma trailed off, her expression as far from the impersonal _analysis and synthesis_ so espoused by the masterminds of the Erasmus Project as he's ever seen it.

"And what, Emma?"

Rafael's darted over the image as it took shape despite her reticence.

 _Oh._

 _Oh no._

Red.

There was red everywhere. Red streamed through the middle of the ancient vessel, cutting a large section of the 16th Guards off from Caelus reinforcement, holding off and pounding each in their turn with surprising efficiency. Red wrestled with gold and blue for control over the Derelict's airspace.

Red it was that encircled smaller pockets of mixed resistance from soldier and excavator alike.

And it was red held them by the throat, before cutting them down to a man.

Words failed as he watched the scene repeat itself once, twice, too many times all over ship's length. Watched the masses of _[SIGNAL LOST]_ symbols pop up on-screen.

Watched the few unfortunate enough to survive being pulled into a sea of crimson.

His knuckles bristled against skin, fingers trying in vain to dent the arms of his chair.

"...Our pilots are requesting permission to sortie as we speak, Captain."

"I know."

The literal wave of pings coming out from their _Vorpal_ complement was impossible to miss, after all.

"I doubt our ship commanders are so sanguine."

"That they are not," Emma confirmed, her expression grim.

A few moments passed between them in silence, undisturbed by all but the ubiquitous chorus of machinery and the soft _ping_ of ships and fighters alike confirming their resettlement into defensive positions.

"I have our emergency afterburners primed, should you wish it," the AI added in a smaller voice.

For a moment, he considered the offer. He could order it. All vessels save the _Anrei_ could hit top speed in that manner. At least theoretically.

For that one moment he imagined them roaring to the rescue in a fury. Unleashing righteous anger upon their enemies.

Then he made up his mind.

"There's no need."

Emma bolted upright, every inch of her screaming outrage.

"Captain, I can take responsi-"

"I said, _there's no need._ " He turned a glowering eye on her. "Emma, do you remember the promise we made?"

She tried maintain the front. It did not last. As it always did with _that_ topic.

"...Yes."

"I do not recall braving the suspicion of the Board, the Admiralty, _and_ the Erasmus Audit lightly. Do you?"

Emma bowed her head.

"No."

"Then don't waste what little mercies they have on something like this. Are we clear?"

"Yes."

She chafed under that reply, he could tell.

That was fine.

"Good."

He allowed himself a tiny smile as he switched to the fleet-wide network.

 _Here goes._

"All ships, this is Vargas. All guns to frontal screen. Fighters, adopt screening positions on starboard. Nominal acceleration in all available engines. We're punching on through to the Derelict. I repeat, we're punching on through."

"These Separatists...no, these _terrorists_ think they can pick fights."

He paused for effect.

"It's high time we showed them just how _wrong_ they were to pick us."

Ignoring both the unabashed cheers of their starfighter group and the more reserved acknowledgements of his fellow ship captains, he turned back to Emma.

"I...do not understand."

Emotions warred for dominance on her face as she struggled for words.

"That's funny. I recall telling Reiko and the others that the oath would keep you all out of my hair if you did something stupid." He arched a quizzical eyebrow. "Did you really think that did not apply to you?"

"But you said-"

"I said we weren't charging in guns and afterburners blazing. I didn't say we weren't going in at all."

"...you _tricked_ me," Emma groaned, realization dawning.

In a human this would have been a fatal distraction. But for all that she sounded genuinely disgruntled, the AI's protests did not make her any less effective at knocking a now laser-less enemy salvo clean out of the air.

"No, I considered your idea...and shelved it in favour of a more methodical approach. There's a difference," he tutted. "You still have a lot to learn, girl."

"But what say we keep all that extra fuel on the backburner for a bit, eh? Never know when _silly ideas_ might come in handy."

 _Huh._ So Emma _had_ seen fit to add 'slack-jawed' into her list of non-regulation expressions at some point. _That's actually quite funny._

The incongruity of that amusement and Emma's almost too dramatic sigh made it all the harder to suppress the snort coming out his nose.

He managed somehow.

"Forgive my impertinence, Captain, but you can be quite insufferable."

"All in the job description, I assure you."

"...So you say."

The AI straightened up at length, her expression settling between resignation and elation. She had been very good at hiding the latter, he noted - digitally modeled appearance or not.

"Any other orders, Captain?"

Rafael looked at the small phalanx of gold as they fought tooth and nail to reach the Derelict.

"Relay our thanks to the crew of _Gryphon-417._ " _Ah, there they are._ On the right echelon, closest and in the thick of the combat. "And luck, too. They'll need it."

Emma nodded.

"That they do...as do we."

"Aye, as do we."

Ignoring the aching protests of his left arm, he removed it from its vice-grip perch on his command chair. Turning it over, he regarded the simple oakwood band that adorned his fourth finger and the gold etchings that lined its circumference.

' _Ever shall our hunt be true.'_

"As do we all."

Emma shot him a bemused look.

"I am quite certain that twenty two point seven light years' distance is sufficient to render your fortunes and those of Major Velda Haritz Vargas independent variables."

"Well, a man can dream, can't he?"

"Yes, yes he can."

At this the blonde fell silent. When she looked at him again, her eyes were dead serious.

"We will meet again. I shall make certain of that."

"Good to hear, girl." He nodded, and dropped the hand. "But eyes on the road now. We've got rough weather ahead."

Indeed, the enemy had been quick to exploit the most obvious downside of their switching from a run-and-gun to a more straightforward breakthrough. The second wave of Separatist starfighters were already splitting across for both flanks, ready to intercept from a position that better suited their superior numbers.

Lying in wait. Daring them to approach.

Rafael Vargas narrowed his eyes.

 _So we will._

 _Hang on, boys and girls. We're coming for you._

 _==[]=[]=[]==_

"Any time now would be good, Jaeger."

Franz Jaeger fought the urge to cringe.

Being the bearer of bad news _sucked._ Being the bearer of bad news people weren't interested in hearing it was _worse._

"I'm trying, Major, but the signal keeps going to shit," he reported, trying not to sound too tired. "I'm transmitting intermittent map data to Patagonius as we speak. Our own ships are too far, we can't reach them."

The slate-blue armored figure put his hands on his hips.

"Well, that's what we employ you tech folk for, isn't it? Get on it."

"Major, the comms array is too badly-"

"I. Said. Get. On. It!"

Franz groaned.

 _...Why do I even bother?_

He took a deep breath, resigning himself.

This should have been expected. He'd skimmed the file on Major Davin Estragan just enough to know that 16th Arcadian Guards' newest -and he _was_ new at three months posted- commanding officer's career was the back alley of the Arcadian military writ large. A botched offensive against rim outlaws here, an unproven allegation of links to a supply shipment scandal there, and one had a solid career mid-life crisis of the man's own making.

Or he might simply have been maligned and lacked the connections or credit to get those details to not stick. Less likely, but a possibility. Worse and stranger things had happened.

Pity then, that he would have been more inclined to countenance it if Estragan wasn't also a _colossal asshole._

In his experience, regulars didn't sympathize with _serve-and-fuck-off_ types like him. But they didn't hate them either. Arcadia, after all, demanded but three years of service, after which every youth was free to do as they pleased.

And _Sheffield Iwasaki: Forging Our Future, Pioneering the Sciences_ was as good a non-military option as one could get. One that was rather close to work of soldiering persuasion, in fact.

At any rate, giving the only person who could fix the battalion's only surviving central comm array hell every other second he couldn't find a way to miraculously restore it to full function was not a thing that was done, firefight or no firefight.

 _Like, someone give this guy the damn memo. You know, the one that says that an army on the long haul is at the mercy of those who fix their equipment when those break?_

 _And boy oh_ boy _do they break._

Six years working with the mega-corporation, and he'd never seen a central comms array this far on the ugly side of mangled beyond recognition that still worked.

For a given definition of 'worked'. It had taken cannibalizing a fire-team's worth of armor power cells, the antenna/speaker section of another comm array and jury rigging them to the ruined mess that was this one's respective sections.

All the while trying hard not to think about what else the .75 caliber anti-materiel rounds might have done after they had punched clean through the battery pack and grazed the transmitter of the backpack mounted array.

"Jaeger?" The Major yelled in between making a few enlisted in the command post miserable. "Get it done already!"

 _Easy for you to say._

At maximum signal intensity a battalion level array should have been able to listen in on the 9th Fleet main body's communications from the Derelict, albeit with much difficulty. As of now, the array was at half its full signal intensity - just about enough to send a Caelus _Gryphon_ lander live map feeds. Which they were in turn _relaying_ to their fleet detachment via one of the _Vorpal_ s.

Putting more power in ran the risk of overloading its improvised structure altogether, starting with the power transformer, which was already on its last legs.

He estimated it had maybe a minute, maybe one-and-a-half left as it stood.

Telling Estragan so had shut him up about pushing the power up - at the price of doubling the man's reminders to get the system fixed.

 _Nevermind that we'd need very specific equipment for that. Or that you'd have this array thrown out at any after-action as a functional loss._

 _Damn, I wish we had one of our engineering specialists down here._

And even if the rest of the Sheffield-Iwasaki specialist teams weren't currently beating a quick retreat back to the main fleet body, even if they could get this hunk of junk parts to run at full indefinitely, there was...forget a Warp Nimbus _;_ there had to be one hell of a storm out there messing up their comms. Odds were that the signal wouldn't get out much further.

 _If only we could get to a ship-class transmitter array..._

His hand wandered to the side-arm he'd been provided when the Guards had commandeered all civilian equipment for their own use as his eye hovered over his tactical map.

One thing worth being grateful for so far was that Estragan possessed the bare minimum of tactical sense and self preservation to warrant his position. Battalion positions had been established on Deck 3, Sector 16-19, which held a commanding position almost right smack in the middle of the ship, with hallways leading to several key sections of the ship -a records section known as the Archive, the hangars, and what had once been the main engine room- while being relatively insulated from attack.

So far so good. But that was where the bad news began. First, insulation was not _impregnability_. And second, a centralized position worked insofar as you could hold the choke-points that led up to it.

Which they hadn't, of course. The only reason the onrush of red that had swept the Deck from Sectors 20-30 had progressed no further was due to the enemy's strange reticence to use explosives.

 _Not that I'd rail on the people trying to kill us for not trying hard enough._

 _Anyway,_ he wondered. _How to sell this idea…_

"Major."

Hands on hips, Estragan turned from where he had been haranguing his latest victim -some poor lieutenant by the looks of it- to face him, his flame visor decal doing much of the sneering for him.

"Is it done?"

"No, but-"

"Well that's fan-fucking-tastic! What can I do for you, Mr. Jaeger?"

 _Stop patronizing me, for starters._

"...There is a way to extend our array's range."

"Oh?" The Major jerked a thumb at the "Does it have anything to do with Lieutenant Orvan insisting that we retake this Derelict's Archive?"

Franz tried not to wince.

"Yes."

"Denied."

"But, sir!" The Lieutenant's voice was young. Shaky. "The Archive is the most sensible choice! It's close, and according to the ship schematics we were given, the most likely to have a major comms hub out of the major ship nodes nearby!"

"And how many men do you think they have guarding that, hmmm?" Estragan pinged their HUD minimap furiously. "Well, would you look at that? Damn well at least seventy in three Sectors, and you wouldn't even have scratched the damn surface!"

"We've the men, sir." The lieutenant gestured near the blast doors, where two sergeants stood. "Almost all of Bravo Company's volunteered to hold it at least until Mr. Jaeger gets a message ou-"

"And what then, hmm?" The Major was audibly livid now. But there was a trembling in his voice that Franz did not miss. The man knew they were on the clock. He _had_ to be considering it at least a little. And now he had volunteers, people to blame if things didn't work out. "You're going to drag Mr. Jaeger along down a two-hundred meter killbox and hope that neither he nor the oversized deathtrap he's carrying will get shot to bits?"

 _Wow. Did he actually just give a shit about me?_

 _Still..._

"...I'd risk it, personally." Franz shrugged. "It's better than sitting here trying the impossible."

Estragan all but rounded on him now. The man's faceplate depolarized, giving Franz more generous a look at his attempt to look more _enraged authority figure_ than _swart, sweaty, bloodshot-eyed staff officer_ than he would have liked.

"Oh, you think so, do you?"

Franz tensed, a retort on his lips-

" _Testing…'Mister Jaeger', do...copy?"_

 _Wha-?!_

That came from the array, not the battalion network.

 _That means-_

He fumbled with his jury-rigged push-to-talk mount.

"Uhh, yes...over?"

The Major almost leaped at him, their boiling argument forgotten.

"Who is it?"

Franz took another look at the tactical map, confirming that _yes,_ Caelus air assets had punched enough of a corridor along the starboard side of the ship to allow for landers to get close.

Including one he was by now well acquainted with.

"It's Gryphon-417."

"Put them on the command net!"

He complied.

" _This is Gryphon-417."_ The voice on the other end was distinctly female, keen and bowstring taut. Definitely a soldier. " _You have a frontal concentration of troops toward the Archive section of the Derelict. Is there something we should know?"_

"We are…" Estragan worked what must once have been a chiseled-square jaw. "...looking to recapture the Archive to establish a more stable line to HQ."

" _You will require help."_

It was stated more as a fact than anything else, and the man visibly winced at the implication.

"...Yes," the Major ground out.

" _Then we will provide a diversion."_ If the speaker took any satisfaction in getting that confession out of the 16th's commander, Franz couldn't tell. " _Wait on our signal."_

There was a strange tone of finality to that.

And indeed a few moments of silence went by before anyone made to speak again.

"Wait," Orvan cut in.

" _Yes?"_

"You didn't say what the signal would be."

" _I did not."_

"Why not?"

" _Because it will not be necessary."_

 _==[]=[]=[]==_

"Really?"

Eight-One-Twenty-Eight shot the pilot a look from her position just behind and to the left of him.

"I do not see cause for confusion."

He shook his head.

"Nevermind."

He did not mean _nevermind_. She could sense his...scepticism.

 _ **his doubt**_

It was not a bad thing, a part of her reasoned. It had taken a while for him to lose the initial fear and nervousness that had nearly seen them clip the hangar doors with the _Gryphon's_ wings. He had been quite silent after that near-miss.

In hindsight her first impression might not have helped, either.

Nonetheless, it seemed that the passage of time and the presence of air cover from friendly starfighter wings was having a positive impact on his situational awareness. And that was important, given their still-precarious situation.

The Separatists starfighters, having had a whole wave of their number wiped out in their first engagement with the technologically superior Arcadians, were starting to re-converge around the Derelict and their own ships. This caution gave the _Cicero's Pride_ and the Arcadian formation some breathing room. But conversely, this tightened their window for landing.

She checked the chronometer. _One minute to landing._

"We have time. Enlighten me."

He paused.

She wondered briefly if it was her decision making. The thought was dismissed. The Arcadian 16th was in close proximity to the enemy. An enemy had captives in their possession. There was no telling if or how their frequencies had been compromised.

She had risked enough noting friendly troop positions for brevity's sake, the fact that an Arcadian retaking of the Archives should already have been on the Separatists' minds notwithstanding.

There was no need to reveal anything more specific than that.

"You seem awww-full sure that they'll get the message."

There was _something_ in his voice, in the way he drew that 'awful' out. What was it?

She looked around. The Last Watchers were no help in that regard, whatever emotion they might have shown hidden by their masks and their refusal -or was it inability?- to speak thus far. A few of the hangar crew they had picked up looked about, avoiding her gaze.

Still frightened, she assumed.

 _ **useless**_

 _No matter._

"Yes, I am certain."

The pilot snorted.

"If you say so."

"I am glad you agree. Are _416_ and _422_ with us?"

"They-" He paused, checking his displays. "Yes, they are."

"Time to optimal landing zone?"

"Twenty nine point six seconds and counting."

"Good. Then on my mark, launch armor piercing micro-missiles at Starboard Deck 3, Sector C, Sectors 21 through 22."

She marked the first half of the square quartet of blocks, before shifting onto the three behind them. Blocks 23 and 24 served as defensive screens for 25, which was in turn the main foyer for the Archive that started proper from 26 to 28.

"Then a second wave onto 23 through 25. That should open a path to the Archive. That's where we'll make our landing." She double-checking her _Hellion_ jump jets. "Once done, switch to guns and cover our entry. Prepare to take some fire."

Tanks full. Vents clear.

That was good. They would be needed past Sector 25, where use of heavy weapons became circumscript.

She turned to the landing ramp. The three Watchers were already running their own pre-launch checks. One of them fiddled with the ramp controls, lowering it at a slow, groaning tear.

 _Very good._

 _Twenty._

She turned to leave, only for the pilot to tilt his head to regard her once more.

"...And after you get inside?"

She considered this. Air support -indeed, more guns of any sort- would be a boon, certainly.

Then her eyes swept over the rest of the vessel's occupants, huddling against their belts and safety harnesses as the lowering ramp brought with it the unwelcome cold of space.

"Disengage, and prioritize safety of non-combat personnel where possible."

 _Fifteen._

She wished she had the ability to read the question on his face as he studied her in silence.

Then the young pilot shook his head.

She would have frowned, but for the quiet smile he wore as well.

"...You're a strange person," he managed.

"That may be," she said, and pivoted on her heel.

One, two, three swift steps brought her to the ramp.

One of the Watchers gave her a thumbs up.

"Bring them home, pilot. We'll take it from here."

 _Ten._

Her thrusters roared to life.

"Mark!"

 _==[]=[]=[]==_

The wailing of missile proximity alerts was the first and last warning Franz, or anyone else got.

For a time-frozen moment, they could all be taken for fools cowering at the feint of thunder, the wildfire of-

"Get to cover!"

-calls blazing the battalion net.

And then the thunder came _rippling_ its way through the ground.

Somewhere between a few years' worth of VR training and common sense, Franz realized through spinning vision that he had wrapped his arms around the makeshift array to elevate it off the undulating floor, sparing it from the aftershocks of that which had just _removed_ the walls of Sectors 21-25 from his map display.

To the credit of his suit's automated gyrostabilizers and mag-lining, that effort only cost him a second or two more of teetering awkwardly on the spot.

Which was alright.

At least he wasn't the Major. The man was splayed against a nearby wall, every muscle on his face struggling to keep his last meal inside. At least a few others shared the same woes.

Orvan, on the other hand, looked barely scuffed.

The young lieutenant was already on his feet and running, hefting his rifle in his left hand and urging his faltering men forward with his right.

"There's our signal, boys! Go, go, GO!"

 _==[]=[]=[]==_

 _How...resilient._

It was praise Eight-One-Twenty-Eight rarely gave.

But the man before her deserved it.

The Separatist's armored faceplate was splintered. Bloodied cracks in polarized glass exposed most of his face. His right arm was missing from the elbow down.

Yet his eyes were hard, his lips set. His good arm was thrust outward, his rifle's arc bayonet inches from her neck.

Pity, then, that her own _Mara_ was already on its way back into its sheath.

A sideward flick of the blade sent blood and jump-jet smoke trailing in her wake, and she passed, leaving his newly bisected body to fall away.

Another body sailed by her before she could even land, a shower of red and gun-metal grey shards hemorrhaging from its caved in chest armor.

One of the Watchers followed it, one arm held out at the apex of a savage hydraulic warhammer's swing, and the other keeping a vice-grip on a _Rakshasa_ as it disgorged its deadly payload.

To their credit, the sight of four of their number sporting new holes in their faceplates did not dissuade the other Separatists.

They remained behind cover, the uplinks from their round-the-corner scopes allowing them to fire without exposing too much of themselves. Forcing her and the Watchers to slow down to duck and weave.

That they did...barely. A few shots tested her armor, but were found wanting.

 _It will take more than this._

The pair prepping a pulse laser cannon in the rear was a good start. That was more like it. More like what was to be expected of those who had been far away or well covered enough from the shock of the explosions, from the cannon fire that ripped through their fellows.

These had had precious seconds to get themselves -if not their weapons- pointed in the right direction again.

Unfortunately, a laser cannon was a poor choice of weapon. A _slow_ choice.

And there were always methods to get around cover.

Landing with both legs bent, she twisted herself out of the laser's most likely path as she fired her jump jets again, using the momentum to bring her _Rakshasas_ to bear.

Her fingers ghosted over the triggers as her sights hovered over the bulky form of the cannon, sending four rounds barreling through its battery block and receiver.

The two barely had time to register impending disaster before it took the form of the fuel cell explosion that engulfed them.

Nor could the rest process the ovoid form of a Benthene Shard Grenade as it sailed through the air to land in their midst.

Adjusting her vernier thrusters, she crossed both arms over her face, charting a shuddering course over and around the rolling wave of force and shrapnel.

The three Watchers stepped into the breach as one to cover her, filling the air with fire and death. Their twin guns kicked noiselessly against their arms, mowing the dozen or so survivors down where they had been thrown into the open.

The more heavily armored soldiers crumpled, blood shadowing the sunset reflections of cordite fire upon their faceplates. Those less so ragdolled wildly as they were struck, parts of them _disappearing_ into bursts of grey-pink mist and showering shards.

This time there was no return fire.

Twelve became six, six became three.

Three became one.

The last was to her right. Behind a large set of consoles. Not firing.

 _Wounded, perhaps,_ Eight-One-Twenty-Eight thought as she made her second landing, turned-

-and came face to face with a gun barrel - or what was left of it, and the person who wielded it.

She could see even now that the face behind the shattered helm would have once been considered _beautiful_ by most standards. Before life on the run had hardened those high cheekbones, deadened the faraway golden eyes, streaked red hair grey. Before some festering disease had dug oily black cracks through that slender face and neck.

Before whatever power had taken the woman that her face might still contort with so much anger...yet wear a smile that could look -no, _feel_ \- infinitely _worse._

For what felt like interminable silence there was only the impossible heaving of a chest flayed open.

Then bluing lips moved. The words could not travel through the empty space between them, but she read them well enough.

" _So pitiful…"_

A crimson cough ripped through the grinning rictus, causing the body to spasm.

"You fought well," Eight-One-Twenty-Eight said, to no one in particular. "There is no pity in that."

She thumbed her _Rakshasa_ onto semi-auto, crosshairs floating over the woman's head.

" _We who…fight our own…flesh..."_

"Rest now."

She pulled the trigger.

The woman's body jerked, then went slack.

She turned, her eyes seeing the room for the first time as something other than tactical positions of varying value.

The Derelict were said to have contained the masterworks of ancient humanity, and it followed that a so-named Archive on board such a ship must surely contain valuable information.

Yet for all intents and purposes, there was little the Shard Grenade could have inflicted upon this place that time and disuse had not yet done already. There had once been beauty here, perhaps even opulence. Yet this was the picture of ornateness and master-craft decayed. What of value could be found here, she could not say.

Only to hope it was worth the lives paid.

In the corner, one of the Watchers bent down to put a foot on a Separatist's stomach, using it as a lever to pry his machete free from where it had been buried up to the hilt in the man's chest. The other two swept the area, kicking guns free from the hands of freshly fallen enemies.

A few moments passed before one of the sweepers gave her a thumbs-up.

Good. That scratched surprises of an explosive nature from the shortlist. She had considered that the Separatists might have booby-trapped the area in the event of its recapture. But it seemed like whatever they had intended to do here, they had not yet been prepared to prevent others from doing the same.

 _So far so good, as they say._

In less fair news, blips friendly and hostile alike beginning to flicker in and out of her sensor's view in an ever-narrowing circle. Whatever it was with the Distortions that had caused the communication failures at the beginning of this battle, it was getting worse.

Whatever it was the Arcadians had in mind, it was best they did it soon.

"...This is Watch Leader. Archive is clear. All units, sitrep."

"This is Thracus Leader," _Gryphon-422_ 's Atlas Commander clipped onto the airwaves, her even tone only just keeping its head above the waters of heavy static. "Sector 21 to 25, clear. No casualties."

"This is Orvan, we're enroute to the Archive. No casualties."

The Arcadian detachment under Lieutenant Jem Orvan were on schedule. That was good. The lack of casualties was unexpected, but a fair bonus nonetheless.

"...phon-41...we are...repeat, all clear…"

"You are breaking up, Gryphon-417."

"It's...storm, signal isn't…-ting throu-"

"Understood. We will re-establish contact at the first opportunity." A first opportunity which could not come sooner, she noted. "Logris Team?"

"This is Logris Leader, we have engaged Separatist forces on Deck 2." There was a pregnant pause. "Between our entrance and combat on-deck they have taken heavy losses, and are falling back at a steady pace."

"We will reinforce you," Thracus Leader noted.

"That would be best." Early estimates at put the Separatist landing party's numbers at at least two battalions strong at least. One team of 8 Atlas Troopers, even in confined spaces favoring the side with smaller numbers and greater skill, would be hard pressed against that many, retreating foe or not. "Lieutenant Orvan?"

"Yes?"

"Kindly relay a request to your commanding officer to furnish my brothers and sisters with reinforcements as they advance. I believe your soldiers will be glad to recover their own."

"Oh, we will, alright."

"It appears that with some good fortune, this may yet go smoothly."

"Good fortune, you say?" Franz Yeager drawled. "I wouldn't count on that if I were-"

 _==[]=[]=[]==_

"-you."

The word petered out on Franz's lips, and he froze at the threshold between the Archive and its foyer.

Which was a perfectly normal reaction, mind.

He'd left the military by the time the Atlas Trooper Project and their role in the Patagonian Civil War had been partly declassified, but he'd heard some stories. And while he would not consider himself an expert in military matters, the first rule with rumors anywhere was exaggeration.

That meant 'unkillable super-soldier' could be safely scaled down to 'wears a lot of armor, puts out a lot of firepower.' That meant thinking big. Very big.

But _expecting_ to see something large wasn't the same as flat out _staring_ down the barrels of four weapons he could've sworn were more than half his size _._ Which themselves looked like _toy weapons_ in the hands -or rather, hand- of the armored giants who toted them.

 _Okay, Franz. First rule of picking on people twice your size..._

He unshielded his faceplate and put his hands up, leaving his machine pistol floating away from him in zero gravity.

 _...'Make Peace Really, Really Fast.'_

Not that black-haired, brown-eyed and stunningly handsome was going to save him from whatever nonstandard caliber the Atlas' guns fired. But since his helmet wasn't going to stop them short either, might as well show what he had, right?

"Hey, hey, chill out. We're on the same side."

 _And make sure to look friendly too while you're at it, Franz. Maybe that'll make the scary skull-faced men in black-and-red battlesuits not blast your face off for whatever reason._

Well, not all of them were in those colors, and thankfully the one clad in standard Caelus green-and-grey was _Watch Leader_.

She lowered her weapon, and the others followed suit.

"That is...a most unorthodox way to open negotiations," Orvan as he entered the Archive flanked by two of his men.

It did not escape Franz's notice that both he and the lead Atlas were both keyed into the private network they had used when she had first contacted them. He shrugged.

 _Well, if that's how you two want it._

"What can I say? I'm a charmer. Anyway, tell me you didn't blow anything important up while you were in here? Because this place looks mighty messed up."

"No. This was by and large the Archive's initial appearance upon boarding."

"I've got to agree," Orvan noted as he looked about. "This is very, very clean work, all things considered."

"Nonetheless," Watch Leader continued, "the presence of high-yield laser weaponry did force us to be less picky about the means than we would have preferred. We did wind up throwing one Shard Grenade."

Franz had to stop himself from doing a double-take. Not only had she just admitted to a potentially mission-risking error, but from her voice the information might as well have been earth-shattering as a spot of afternoon rain.

 _And she's quite right,_ he noted. He gave the consoles in the room a once-over, detaching the impromptu comms array from his suit as he did so. The eerie blue of Benthene shards burned still, but their penetration into the surfaces were, on closer observation, superficial.

"More importantly," the Atlas leader continued, "will you be able to accomplish your task in the Archive's present state?"

"Yeah, sure, don't worry it about."

"Would you even know where to find a comms array in here?" Orvan inquired. "Last I heard, you weren't exactly an engineering specialist."

"I'm more a manager than anything, but hey, anything's possible with some cross-training, kid," Franz wagged a finger at him as he brought up a new screen on his HUD.

While he'd gotten a feel for the exact structure of the room, his suit had been working to match up its design with others of its kind from previous excavations. The process was by no means perfect. This was one of the larger and more intact systems they'd found so far by a long shot. But the structure was by and large the same.

 _An outer ring of compact data storage devices...well, a lot of those are gone. A pity, but the usual. The inner structures are mostly that, plus some holo-projectors..._ He ran a hand across one that had been less scarred by the grenade. _...except this stuff is actually in decent shape. Pity there probably isn't enough energy in that bastardized setup of mine to power them up. Wouldn't been fun to get a sneak peek in, you know?_

 _...would've been fun to be first for once._

 _Oh well,_ he thought as he stood over the centremost structure - an ovoid with a plateaued-off top the size of family dinner table. Whipping a standard-issue laser cutter-cum-omni-tool from its magnetic waist holster, he dropped to the ground in front of it. _Guess this is the best bet, eh?_

Watch Leader dipped her head, a move that had the interesting effect of making the gold-yellow curve below the top half of her skull-white war-mask look even more like a smile.

"You seem to know what you're doing. I take it that Derelict schematics are not something Sheffield-Iwasaki is prepared to divulge?"

 _Huh, she's actually pretty smart._

"Eh, it's still mostly guesswork, ma'am. Don't you think I'd have hit up the comms array already if I knew? And you don't get listed on the Arcadian Directorate for giving information out for free. The rest is _details._ Probably above your paygrade to have one of these." Well, that wasn't a lie, he told himself. More of a...diversion? "Actually, do they even pay you? Also, how're contractions not a thing you use?"

Orvan chuckled as he directed his men into overwatch positions.

"Has anyone ever told you to slow down with the questions, Mr. Jaeger?"

"What the heck, man, if you're gonna poke fun at me then at use my name. None of this 'Mr.' bullshit. I'm thirty, not decrepit," Franz snapped at the lieutenant as he cut away at the structure's protective plating. "But yeah, okay. So...contractions?"

"...I admit it has never occurred to me that this manner of speaking was unacceptable."

It was an odd sight, having a hulk in nine-foot tall armor tap her chin in thought.

 _In other things odd, this section isn't it. In fact_ , he observed, staring at the hole he had sliced in the ground to get at where its cables -not that an Archive with functioning cabling was a discovery in itself, no sir!- led, _if anything, this thing is meant to synthesize and project whatever gets fed into it from…_

His eyes fell onto three aged-looking consoles arranged in a loose equilateral triangle about him.

 _...these three fellows here. Any of which could be the comms array. Guess we're opening all three._

"Well, it's not common practice nowadays," Orvan offered.

"Uncommon? It's machine-speak, is what it is," Franz grunted, before leaping back onto his feet. "Okay, I think I got this."

"You _think_?" The lieutenant sounded incredulous.

"Well, bite me if we can't always be one hundred percent sure. Do you have any idea how many problems there could possibl...nevermind, you guys probably have no idea." He suddenly wished he wasn't wearing a helmet. _Damn my hair itches._ "Okay, so we might need to split the work a bit here. I just need some help with-woah!"

The word ' _help'_ had barely left his mouth, before all three black-clad Atlases had _jumped_ up from where they had been positioned to almost literally get in his face. In less than three seconds.

"What the-"

Two of of them unsheathed their knife...sword... _two foot long utility arc blade of doom-things_ , and pointed a finger at one of the consoles each.

"-Huh." _Well that makes things quite easy._ "I guess that's fine, I guess. You know what to do?"

They glanced at his handiwork with the centremost section, then at each other. Exchanging nods, they turned back to face him, nodding some more.

 _Wow._ Were they telepathic or something? Either way, Franz decided, they were beggars for time. _And you know what they say about beggars..._

"Well, uh, go ahead then. Just be careful around two colors of cabling. Red-black is for external power, second-most important. Most important color is black-purple-yellow. That hooks up to the comms core, which is a black cube about…" He spread his hands about less than a foot apart. "...this big. We need to slave that to our set to boost its signal. Otherwise, just cut with caution."

In any other case he would have checked the whole system more thoroughly. But as it stood they knew very little about the way Derelict systems worked beyond conjecture, a result of most having been found in various stages of wasting away in form and function alike.

 _Might as well wing it a bit._

He resolved to keep an eye on their work, though. One could never be sure the skills and condition that allowed four men to beat four dozen was the same that would guide hands in more precise craft.

 _And that leaves us with one more, doesn't it-_

-Wait. When had the last guy started squatting on the floor?

"...And when did you nick my stuff?"

 _And how, how,_ _ **how**_ _in the bleeding hells did I even miss my_ entire pack _, signalling device, extra fuel cells and all, being taken from right under my nose to under at the feet of a fucking metal giant?!_

The Atlas Trooper just shrugged, the first notable sign of distinct personality from any of the three so far, and started uncoiling the omni-cables he had wound around the rigging of the glorified signal set.

Now he really wished he could take that helmet off.

This supersoldier shit made his head _hurt._

"...well, okay. Fine. So, man, just...uh, help me take the thing apart, separate the receiver from the power assemblage. We only want the latter and the cabling, the former's falling apart anyway. Then hook the omni-cables up to the right parts when we've opened them - the schematics and the cables will do the rest. Just make sure you check and test 'em first, make sure there's no overload."

For a few moments there was no response. Then the masked Trooper gave a thumbs-up, and dipped down to focus on the task given.

Orvan whistled from his corner.

"Impressive. You'd make a good officer."

"Gee, thanks." Franz couldn't keep his eyes from rolling as he turned to face the Atlas commander. "Say, you have any more of these cyborg ninja butler assassins in your pocket anywhere?"

"Not that I know of. Should I inform you when we have had enough... _cross-training_ to qualify for every category?"

"Not sure when you came to be Atlas spokesperson. Your pals here not into the whole talking thing?"

"...Unfortunately."

 _Huh. Right. So, we make a cut here to expose the cabling. Then we find the external power cable, and-_

 _-one moment._

"You were saying?"

"...No. I was not."

Again with that _I-will-say-no-more-than-this_ tone. She seemed to have quite a knack for indicating when any given attempt at conversation was going to die stillborn.

 _But that's what I don't get. Why would you-_

 _Oh._ He looked at his volunteer co-workers - _really_ looked this time. And he saw it: the way in which metal jointed-fingers shifted out of and locked back into place. The way wrists, _arms_ turned on impossible axes to make cunning cut.

 _Goddamn it, one of them isn't even kneeling on a real leg. And those masks…_

He could've sworn they were air filtration devices before. Funny how context changed things.

"...That how it is with them, huh?" Franz muttered, shaking his head. "Aw shit, I've been putting a shoe in my mouth this whole time, haven't I?"

"Not for long, fortunately."

 _Damn it to hell Franz, you're an idiot._

His work couldn't look more absorbing than it did now. Which

"It's...been a long day. My bad."

"Do not dwell on it. That you had the virtue to take rash words back is enough." Enough for _who_ exactly, she didn't say. "Incidentally, will you need any more help?"

"Nah, I'm almost done."

 _And there we go._ It was a bit of a rush-job, all things considered. But he supposed a few slant incisions weren't going to feature heavily in the After Action Report - assuming there would be one. _Just need to get those cables-_

 _-Actually._

He held out his empty hand behind him.

It did not remain empty long, the familiar width and weight of an omni-cable filling it almost instantly.

 _...I could get used to this,_ he thought, grinning wildly.

It would take at least a few seconds after he linked the omni-cable and its corresponding mate in the console for the nanites in the latter to shift to match the former. Seconds he took to walk over to the power array and re-attach it to his suit.

 **[Cable One: Secured,]** the uplink reported. **[Cable Two: Secured. Cable Two-Beta: Secured. Cable Three: Securing…]**

 _On second thought._

Franz Jaeger was by no means the proudest man in the business. But _damn_ was being outclassed getting just a tad bit old.

 _Unless..._ he shot a glare at the Atlas he'd left with the disassembly, daring him to respond.

One finger, two fingers, three fingers went up, and then a shrug.

He heard Orvan snigger. _Oh yeah, thanks pal, it's like I can't count or something._

 **[...Cable Three: Secured.]**

 _You cheeky bastards,_ Franz grouched as he made to turn the whole setup on. _Don't think we're done here-holy!_

It was like someone had thrown on _all_ the lights in the room, but only for moments at a time as a scattering of holo-projectors all around them took turns to flicker on and off.

"...Is it supposed to do that?"

Orvan cocked his head.

"Probably," Franz muttered. "Display interfaces aren't matching up right. Shouldn't matter though. We're just using that thing as a glorified antenna..."

That was what _should've_ happened. Which was why he could hear the alarm bells ringing in his head when the amorphous light-show gave way to defined cool-hues, light blue borders on dark blue body.

To floating words written in an invisible hand, blazing their way across his HUD.

 **[Establishing Link with Navigation Modules...failure.]**

 _What?_

His eyes darted between the displays. Nothing. Still gibberish there. He was the only one seeing this.

 _But how-_

 **[Establishing Link with Bridge CIC...failure. Present position on starmap cannot be ascertained.]**

 _-Okay, nevermind that. Dammit,_ Franz groaned as he frantically cycled through what limited access he had to the Derelict's workings. _How many of this hulk's systems are still active?!_

Not enough. There was not enough information. And he couldn't do anything too drastic. Too risky.

Couldn't be sure of what might happen-

 **[Assuming mission loss. Initiating Dark Sector Protocols-]**

-then the lights died, the screens blacking out as one.

A dread silence followed. One that was broken, ultimately, by the only person in the room whose eyes were not all but locked onto him.

"I take it that this was not in your schematics?"

It was hard to place the intent of the Atlas commander's words, suspended as they were on the wrong side of _baffling lack of concern._ Franz found himself wondering what sort of face she was making under her mask, gazing into the distance.

Partly of course to avoid thinking what Orvan's expression might be under his helmet - now that one didn't take a genius for sure.

"...Franz."

 _Well, shit._

 _Shit._ How was he going to explain this? What was he going to say?

 _Real sorry guys, but we 'professionals' actually didn't know if this would work worth shit, and now we might have just lost all the precious data we might have gleaned from a legendary bygone age of humanity to an automated-fucking-system purge that we never saw coming...because field testing isn't a thing with millennia-old electronics?_

No. That was never going to work.

 _Okay. Calm down, Franz. What've we still got?_

He put his eyes to work, poring over his HUD displays.

 _Huh._ The comms core was still pinging consistently. The signal was being boosted as expected, too. He could see that the rest of the assault was going well. Between the relentless push of the Atlas Troopers and the backup from the Guardsmen, they were well into the process of recapture their prisoners. _Well, there's that._

"The Comms bridging worked, at least," he said, trying his hardest not to let _sweet, blessed relief_ bleed into his voice too much as he directed his suit to share the tactical data it was receiving. "Now all we need to do is-"

"Unknown Station, this is the _Emeraldas_. Identify yourself, or you will be treated as a hostile. I repeat, Unknown Station, this is the _Emeraldas_. Identify yourself, or we will treat you as a hostile in Arcadian space."

 _Well there we go!_

He leaped at the voice of the AS _Emeraldas'_ XO -her name was...was it Emma?- like the answer to a prayer.

" _Emeraldas_ , this is Supervisor Franz Jaeger, SI-M-0214716A."

"Secondary authentication NIGHT SKY, FILM DOYEN." he added for his suit's internal comms system only, authorizing it to broadcast his biometrics and IFF through the Derelict's systems.

"ID, Voiceprint, Exoframe Biometrics, IFF tallies. Good to see you, Supervisor Jaeger. Status?"

"We've retaken this ship's Archive, and seized its broadcasting facilities."

"Excellent work. Be advised, main fleet's ETA is two minutes forty seconds. Our fighters are pushing towards your position as we speak. Stand by for- wait one..."

He knew that the _Emeraldas'_ XO was an artificial intelligence. It was strange to hear it, no, _her_ trail off. As if confused.

Apprehensive.

"...I don't understand."

 _Afraid._

"What's going on?"

"It's the Separatists." Emma's voice was suddenly terse. "They're- be advised, Supervisor, you have a large concentration of heavy starfighters making vectoring on your posi-"

 **[WARNING: MISSILE LOCK DETECTED.]**

 _Oh shit._

Ice seized his veins.

 _Shit!_

"DOWN!" The sound was rusty, ripping its way out of a frozen throat. "EVERYONE, GET DOWN-"

An green-armored arm circled around his chest, ripping him off the ground-

-and he was careening backward, away, deeper into the ship, borne on wings of flame.

His mouth tore open in a gasp for air.

And then his world was a sea of white.

 _==[]=[]=[]==_

Reiko Imamura watched it all unfold with an awful slowness.

They'd all assumed that the Separatists would look to retreat. It was the next logical step - their odds of victory were not high to begin with, and would disappear like smoke once the both main Fleets arrived. They had the ability to perform faster-than-light jumps through heavily distorted space. It made sense that they should use it.

Thus no one could have foreseen how the seven sub-light torpedoes came into that picture, riding familiar plumes of plasma-fire that lit up the eternal night as they were launched.

Through the distant chaos they sailed, their relativistic flight unnoticed in the midst of the intense dogfighting that surrounded the Derelict. And when the fusion warheads struck the Derelict it was like space itself _reverberated._

The ancient vessel was a proud thing even in its decay - and huge beyond the measure of all but the largest battleships.

None of that mattered against seven _Stormhammer_ torpedoes. Each blow caused the vessel to visibly shake, disgorging torrents of fusion-fire, melted slag and debris…

...and wiping swathes of red and blue alike from the face of the map, scattering what survivors there were in all directions.

 _What...what the hell are they doing?!_

That same disbelief, that same _horror_ was echoed on the faces of her fellow pilots.

The smirking humor that Helen had brought to the table had been wiped from her face. Nor was a shred left of the casual, apathetic mask that Max always wore. Emma's quivering lips hung frozen on the cusp of speech.

Each face was a storm of barely-controlled emotions.

Shock. Terror. Rage.

But most terrible of all was the face of Genevieve Sheffield. Reiko couldn't describe the Lieutenant Commander's expression. Couldn't put words to the _blackness_ that seemed to well forth from the woman's lilac eyes. To the way those eyes quivered like liquid fire, like they had a _pulse like a beating heart_ of their own-

-or the way that look bled out instantly as the violet locked onto hers. Then Sheffield's lips curled upwards, revealing a smile far too sad and old for her young features...yet one that was every bit as genuine as the anger that had preceded it.

Then it was gone, replaced by the impassive look she had worn before when she had led them - save for her eyes.

Her eyes still smiled.

 _Trust me,_ they said.

Reiko frowned.

 _Can I, really?_

Her TacArray pinged once. Then again, and again.

 _What is it this time-_

"Those bastards are turning around for another pass!" That was Auriga Two. "Let's get in there, Chief!"

Reiko felt the furrow in her brows grow deeper still. There couldn't be too many survivors left of the several hundred that had last been detected aboard the ship, and besides, finishing them off would be counterproductive to a retreat.

Which they _were_ doing in the grander scheme of things. The _Wyvern_ and its remaining escorts had already begun to turn tail and form up, leaving the smoking hulk of the _Cicero's Pride_ in their wake. So was the the larger part of their starfighter complement, laying down flares, chaff and covering fire alike as they disengaged from their flagging Caelus counterparts.

 _So what the hell are_ these _guys doing?_

To the casual gaze, the only change in Sheffield's expression would have been the thinning of her lips. But that was all Reiko needed to know that they shared the same suspicions.

Sheffield's gaze flickered. "Emeraldas?"

"Unanimous approval from the captains," Emma said, her face re-schooled as well. "Whatever it is they want to destroy, it cannot be allowed."

"Then let's go. Tiwaz, Zenith, Auriga, Corinth, on me! Striborg Leader, Madcat, you've got the rear." Sheffield paused. "and be careful. This change of tactics doesn't sit right with me."

 _But I can't for the life of me say why,_ her eyes finished for her.

"Gotta say," Helen groused, "I'm pretty fucking pissed myself right now. But the Commander's right. They don't look so scared of us anymore."

Even through the havoc the _Vorpal's_ acceleration played on her field of vision, Reiko could see that her friend was right. More than right, really. Starfighters were breaking off from the dogfight to bar their path. _Drakars_ , _Ogmas_ and…

...whatever the hell those four others were. But where in earlier eras of warfare they might have passed for a larger variant of the _Ogma_ until they had come much closer, advanced optics were already at work exposing the disparities. Their forms were more curved and streamlined while also remaining black and featureless. Ambient energy signature-to-velocity measurements suggested at least 26 percent superior propulsion efficiency to either existing class of Separatist starfighter despite easily being twice the size of either.

 _But no visible weaponry. What on earth-_

A klaxon wailed sounded, red and strident.

 **[WARNING: MISSILE LOCK DETECTED.]**

 _-dammit!_

She swung away just in time to see the horizon light up with gleaming steel, smoke and fire, the enemy force that had belched forth those flames breaking off to engage them.

 _They're fast!_ Reiko started, firing off her penultimate batch of hybrid countermeasures, struggling to find a lock.

"Thought we had the range advantage?!" Helen demanded.

"Guess things change," Max muttered under his breath.

 _Or they've learned,_ Reiko thought grimly as she threw herself under another wave of autocannon fire.

Switching her micro-missiles to her smaller pool of independent tracking smart missiles, she fired them off, grinning as they slammed into one of the onrushing _Drakars_ and clipped another in the wing, sending both spinning off in different directions.

 _Well, not every trick we have, but hey._

"Return fire!" Sheffield roared, her own _Vorpal_ juking amid explosions that rocked the space around it. Like Helen's, it was equipped with _Regulator_ coilgun repeaters for heavy long-range capabilities. And the Lt. Commander used it well, tagging two _Drakars_ near the cockpit block with a few mid-swerve shots, cutting both starfighters clean in half. "Less talking, more shooting!"

"Hot damn she's good," Helen whistled.

"Heads up!" Tiwaz Leader called from off on the left wing, front and closest to the Derelict following the initial salvo. "The _Ogmas_ are starting their torp run!"

Sheffield's response was near-instantaneous.

"Emma, get anyone who's still alive to get further into the Derelict!"

"On it." the AI replied through gritted teeth.

"Long-range units, prepare to shoot the torps down! The rest, covering fire!"

Helen licked her lips, taking a deep breath. Her blue blip, like Sheffield's, Striborg Leader's and Tiwaz Three's, were already falling far behind the rest of the formation.

"Time to go big or go home, huh?"

"Yup. No pressure or anything," Max noted, his _Vorpal_ falling in with the others.

"Sod off, Lil'-"

"That's enough you two," Reiko snapped. "Focus."

 _Because damn if we don't all need it._

Even at the most advanced stages of their development, _Stormhammer_ s had never been known for their smart-tracking abilities. They could only lock onto one thing at a time and were not by themselves capable of adapting themselves to more specific targets or changes thereof once launched. She presumed that the sub-light missiles had homed onto the Archive's powerful signal broadcast to have achieved so precise a strike.

It was outmoded technology with limitations most would consider brutal, even fatal in modern warfare. But the Separatists had proven able to circumvent those disadvantages so far.

Which was why she felt her heart freeze when the _Ogmas_ that surely carried them swung away from the Derelict. Swung away to _face them,_ all while their escorts surged forward.

 _Are they really-_ Reiko's eyes blazed across her TacArray once. Twice. No target locks registered on anyone in the fleet. _-yes they_ are _firing unguided. But why would they-_

Then her TacArray exploded into an orgy of smoke and light _._

 _Countermeasure airburst!_ Reiko swore through blinded, _hurting,_ _ **hurting**_ eyes.

It was an old trick, and double-edged sword at what may as well have been point blank range.

But it was also effective. And _effective_ was all the _Ogmas_ needed.

She could still very well hear the _Stormhammers'_ proximity warnings, and the chaos they were wreaking all over the FleetNet as they screamed past her position.

"...goddamn smoke…too! ...see shit!"

"These...kers, what do they..."

"Dogfight...repeat, ...reak off!" Even Sheffield was breaking up. "-pers...our sh...now-"

Even through a partly disrupted uplink to FleetNet, Reiko already knew that the real problem here was a signal masking chaff cloud, rather than any major damage to her _Vorpal_ 's communication systems _._ At least five turning solutions to exit said cloud's area of effect existed in the back of Reiko's mind, two of which would get her back into the fight post-haste.

None of these solutions would survive contact with enemy. Namely, with the wave of force that rammed the right arm of her seat into her ribs, and sent her _Vorpal_ into a wild end-over-end tumble.

Those very groaning -bruised, not broken, or they would be screaming- ribs proved her salvation. She channeled that pain to keep her lucid. Angry. Thinking, in spite of the shrieking of proximity warnings, the mounting damage reports.

 _Canopy displays down twenty percent. Gyrostabilizers damaged. FleetNet uplink compromised, comms array non-functional. Left wing micro-missile launcher damage extensive._

Reiko held steady, wrestling with the flightstick. Fighting the machine that threatened to become her coffin. It fought back, knocking her into her chair again.

Her eyes, still sore, snapped open.

Then she almost wished they hadn't.

 _What_ is _that?!_

It was huge, _twice the size of a starfighter_ no longer doing it justice this close up. It was rippling black chitin-flesh writhing underneath half-molten skin. It was metal sinews stretching and ripping. It was too-big glowing eyes and a jaw with _far, far too many teeth._

And it was those teeth, sunk up to the gums in the cockpit block of a _Vorpal_ , bleeding the black fuel from the canopy and auxiliary engines eagerly. Hungrily.

 _so hungry_

Reiko wanted to throw up. Her head felt like someone had lit it on fire from the inside.

But more than that, _she wanted to kill this bastard._

A tug of the trigger brought all the fury of her fighter's guns to bear on the unknown - starting with its less armored propulsion block. With a wordless roaring of agony, it released its prey to round on her.

 _Yes, that's right, I'm here._

Then it charged.

 _Come and get me!_

Its wounds only mounted for all its efforts, each shot tearing chunks out of it in sprays of darker-than-black Reiko would've sworn was blood. Flesh that churned and twisted on its wounded flanks as though to resist the assault or find a way to counterattack was swiftly caved in under the barrage of cannon-fire. Yet it clung to life, undeterred in seeking its target.

Twin alerts sounded. The _Vorpal'_ s ammo reserves were down to half, its gun barrels getting dangerously hot from continuous fire against something that should have given up the ghost long ago.

She ignored them, instead holding the trigger down until the light in its remaining eye faded with a strange abruptness, causing its ravaged form slumped at last.

The shuddering whine of the guns died down as she released them from their torment.

 _[Force-Cycling Coolant,]_ her TacArray informed her. _[Cannons entering standby-state.]_

Not that she needed the reminder. The hiss of coolant being forced through pipes vied with her breathing, loud and ragged, and the wild throbbing of her heart for dominance in her ears.

 _One down, three to go. now we just need to-_

Only a stabbing pain in her head cried _danger_ had Reiko swerve just in time to avoid being skewered by a wave of harpoon-like projectiles as they streaked past through the burgeoning smoke cloud, and then again to avoid the creature that had all but spat them from the twin barrels -more twisted flesh-spire than gun- that emerged from its gaping maw.

Two more burst into the clearing that her battle with their compatriot had formed, hot on the tail of a single Vorpal that her few remaining optics tagged as _Madcat Three_.

 _Max!_

FleetNet had no numbers for her this time. But she knew them all the same. It would take nearly ten seconds more of coolant cycling to restore her guns. Less if she forced the issue, but the odds were she'd lose them that way. She was down to one launch each of countermeasure and offensive micro-missiles, from only one launcher. One at a time was the best she could manage.

The situation as far as she could tell was three versus two. Both she and Max were damaged. He was likely out of ammo, from the fact that all he could do was try to avoid being shot at. Or worse, take any more damage to his tattered right wing. In all likelihood, they were both also lost in the smoke.

Worst of all, they were the rearguard, and yet the enemy had still fought as four.

So Reiko Imamura made a choice.

 _Load countermeasures. Setting, timed airburst._

She dropped her crosshairs over her slowing pursuer as it made to turn for another pass. Mercifully, the _Vorpal_ 's advanced tracking systems were still active, allowing her to lock onto it while turning herself.

 _Fire!_

Reiko averted her eyes, the creature lost to her in a sea of light and smoke. Squaring herself to face Max and his pursuers, she then pushed up to full throttle.

Now for the hard part.

 _Load armor piercing._

Max had noticed her. He'd also gone pure visual at some point, and was giving her a look like he'd just drunk whatever she or Helen had switched his coffee with that morning.

Something she hadn't done in months, come to think of it, Reiko mused.

Unshielding her canopy, she jerking a thumb behind her.

 _No time. Go, you idiot,_ she mouthed.

One of his two hunters had also noticed her approach, peeling off from its chase vector on Max to angle onto her instead. That made the hard part a bit easier.

That is, until its own mounted guns started firing.

She felt the first shots slam into the side of her starfighter even as her own wave of missiles blazed forth. Whatever ammo it was the creatures used, it had not been tested against nano-composite armor. But mass and speed had a power of their own, and she'd already taken too much abuse. Systems all over her TacArray first turned red, and then dark as they died out.

Nor was her canopy made of the same material as the thickest parts of the starfighter _-_ two hits left a web of cracks all over the reinforced material.

A third shattered the canopy, sending a curtain of shards into the cockpit walls.

Reiko felt smaller fragments glance off the upraised arms and protective suit shielding her face. She grit her teeth as larger ones left their mark, nicking the suit and leaving her bleeding from nearly a dozen cuts.

Then she heard a sharp _crack._ Her TacArray display went dark. For a moment, there was a stunned silence, and an iron tang filling the inside of helmet.

Then for the first time that day, Reiko Imamura screamed.

 _It hurts._

She screamed. Bucked and kicked. Hammered her fingers against controls from whom the power to respond had all but bled out, until her strength was gone, and then some more. Yet none of it brought any relief to the seed of pure agony that had burrowed into the right side of her face.

 _It_ _ **hurts.**_

Or dispel the creeping thought that the creature's lipless jawline was upturned in some cold smirk at an irony only it could see as it approached. That it was savoring the thought of killing her.

 _Devouring_ her.

...She didn't want to die.

Not here. Not like this.

 _Not like this-_

Then there was _so much light,_ yet unlike before, she was already in so much pain that she did not avert her eyes.

And thus she saw the answer to her prayer: a single spear of plasma fury that pierced the creature's right eye and exited through its left in an instant, leaving a vaporized skull behind as but an afterthought.

It exploded an instant later. She felt its death throes buffet her in waves that were almost warm, almost comforting. Felt blissful relief embrace her, take her away from from garish, cold light of space.

Until all that was left was darkness and silence...

...and red raindrops falling on her face.

 _==[]=[]=[]==_

It ended with a slaughter.

Silhouetted by the sun-like intensity of the combat flare, stripped of their smoke-bound disguise by the force of their comrade's destruction, the remaining two hostiles were easy targets for the remaining Arcadians.

A veritable tidal wave of death washed over them, projectiles of myriad sizes and origins pulverizing even their hardy hulls, handily shredding both into near nothingness before so much as a single roar of defiance or return shot could be raised.

Those were small, precious victories, and it would be poor form not to take them.

Yet it was with mixed feelings that Franz Jaeger watched the Separatists make their retreat, ducking through a field of eldritch light much like the one from which they had come.

On the one hand, the long day was finally over.

On the other, the sense of anticlimax was overwhelming. Almost enough to make a man suspicious.

Franz stared at the scene for a few long moments, willing, almost _daring_ something else to go wrong in a day where so much had already done so.

Only failing that, did he finally let loose the breath he had been holding.

If the green-clad Atlas Trooper beside him had similar apprehensions, she did not show it. The portable railgun she had used to fire the opening shot of that salvo had already had its bipod, scope and spare magazine stowed away, and she was well into the process of folding it up and returning it to the rack on her suit.

"Uh...good shooting?" he said eloquently.

It was a shame she had the visible emotional variance of a flatlining heart, Franz thought, or he'd have taken some pride in being able to read her stance as being _noncommittal_.

"It was alright."

"Yeah, you're the real life of the party, aren't you?" He muttered. "Probably got a grading system for dress code and all that, too."

"For the record, I-"

"This is Auriga Leader to Watch Leader," Lieutenant Commander Genevieve Sheffield cut in, interrupting their conversation.

"Watch Leader, receiving."

"Glad to hear it. Thanks for helping us spot the enemy a moment ago. Not sure we would have made the shot without you."

"Do not mention it. Rather, it is regrettable that we did not manage to hit back sooner," the Trooper replied, sliding the now-folded weapon back into its rightful place. "You and your comrades fought well against those... _things,_ whatever they were."

There was something in her tone. It told him that whatever she'd seen through her scope, forensics was going to have a massive field day with it - and not for the best of reasons, either.

"We protect our own, that's all."

"As do we all. Is there anything else?"

"About that…we're going to need someone to get a preliminary number on the losses we've suffered on board the Derelict, and help to put together whatever data we might have gotten while onboard." There was a pause, and a sigh. "It's a dirty job, but-"

"Consider it done."

"Thanks. See you at the debrief, Watch Leader."

"And to you."

With that, the Atlas turned to where Lieutenant Orvan and the men he'd brought to the Archives were propped up against a wall next to the three... _Last Watchers,_ or so the black-and-red-clad Atlases were apparently called.

"Shall I, or will you do honors?"

The Lieutenant shifted his weight abortively.

"Not...on this broken leg I'm not," Orvan grunted. "Guess it's your show."

She nodded.

"Acknowledged."

"Just…" suddenly, Orvan chuckled, his voice weak and way past tired. "...just tell my boys I haven't bitten it yet. If you see 'em, I mean."

"...I will."

Franz bit his lip. That was the shell-shock speaking - that, or denial. Maybe it would take five minutes, or ten, or a whole day. But at some point the fact that it was in all likelihood beyond the power of the average infantryman to survive an airstrike of that magnitude would settle in.

 _Hell, I'll probably be up at three in the morning in a bar sometime next week with just a few bottles to accompany me while I bawl my eyes out. Just don't know if I should be the one to-_

"Mr Jaeger."

The Atlas commander's voice was almost uncharacteristically soft.

"...Franz. It's Franz."

She cocked her head, regarding him, again, with uncharacteristic curiosity.

 _Well, what do you know. Looks like you can look like I just grew an extra head or five after all._

He shrugged.

"C'mon, you don't get to act like we're not acquainted. Not after bear-hugging me hard enough to bruise, you know, just about all my ribs - not that that's a big problem or anything."

"...I see," she almost mused _,_ after a few moments' consideration. "Franz it is, then. As for your ribs, I apologize. I must have forgotten my strength."

"Eh, whatever. What were you going to ask me?"

"I was going to ask if you wished to remain here, or if you would accompany me as I make the rounds," she explained. "My men can hold the perimeter here, and you should be quite safe with me, if you like."

"...Are you asking me out?"

"Yes." There was a short silence. Most likely due to her having trouble taking in Franz Jaeger's self-patented _are-you-fucking-shitting-me_ face. "Is it so strange?"

But there was just no way. _Was there?_

And then he glanced around, and realized what was happening. The Last Watch members were already seeking new positions, while one of the soldiers -a senior specialist of some sort, he wasn't familiar with that particular branch rank- was approaching his officer.

 _...ah, so that's how it is, huh._

 _More fool I, then, for underestimating these fellows._

"Well…no, I suppose it isn't," he said, a wry smile on his face.

"That is good."

"One thing though. Got a name?"

"ADS-Eight-One-Twenty-Eight," she supplied immediately.

"That's…" _not a name,_ he wanted to say - but that was probably one faux-pas too many for the day.

"...too long," he finished.

"Is it?" The Atlas asked, her voice thoughtful, though about _what_ he could not say. "...That is something that can be remedied in due time, it is."

Then, standing up, she proffered a hand to him.

"But for now, we move. Shall we?"

 _==[]=[]=[]==_

 _The horizon is dark._

 _She feels the water lap against her feet. She can smell the salt air._

 _Who is she? She is Reiko Imamura. She is not Reiko Imamura._

 _She is both. She is neither._

 _And she burns._

 _The rain burns her skin, her face._

 _She welcomes it. It keeps her awake._

 _Lets her think._

 _The smoke helps. Just enough of the smell of shit, tar and menthol to go with the scent of the sea._

 _Not like it could hurt her, anyway. Nevermind what anyone else would say._

 _The footsteps that stop just behind her also help._

" _You should really get inside. The kids are concerned for you, so they are."_

 _She doesn't turn. Merely watches the smoke trail lazily from the cigarette at her lips. She scowls at the glowing ember, as though willing it to not come more dangerously close to her lips than it already had._

 _No such luck._

 _There is a sigh._

" _You don't like me much, eh?"_

 _She takes a last drag before flicking the cigarette away, taking her time with the exhaling release._

" _No, I don't. Don't trust you either. Too much of_ them _in you."_

" _And you would face your back to someone like that?"_

 _She snorts._

" _I believe in honor. You and your sisters have shown enough of it. That deserves respect, at least."_

" _Hoh?"_

" _But if you hurt any of my girls, I_ will _gut you."_

 _In her hand she holds steel. Familiar steel. But there is no fear of it in the laugh that follows._

" _Scary. But I'll have to refuse. There's a time and place for such things, so there is."_

 _Obfuscating as always, she thinks._

" _Meaning?"_

" _Meaning, you can trust me." She feels that smile grow. "From one elder sister to another...we protect our own."_

" _...as do we all."_

 _She can't smell the smoke any more._

 _Only the iron, wafting off the rips in her skintight suit._

 _It's coming back to her. The pain. The cold._

 _Her head. It still hurts._

 _She turns. The face is that of...not-Genevieve Sheffield. Even through blood and sweat-addled vision, the other woman is too happy. Her face is too pale, her eyes gleam too bright. But in another time, another place, this would certainly have been her._

" _...how?"_

 _It is the only thing she can ask._

" _Save it for later. We'll talk then." Not-Genevieve allows her -_ sleeve? _\- to billow as she waves. "For now, try not to die on me..."_

" _...though I'm one to talk about that."_

 _The voice is getting distant._

 _Fading. Like everything else._

" _We all are, really."_

 _Everything else except the rain, and the whispers of a distant sea._

 _==[]=[]=[]==_

She welcomed her little ones as they returned.

" _Good job."_

" _Well done."_

" _It was hard, wasn't it?"_

For so it had been.

They had fought on many fronts, against many foes.

Some returned victorious. Some returned wounded.

Some returned not.

Nonetheless, they had left hungry, and returned filled, sated.

That was enough for her. She invited them all to come, to rest and to nestle in her bosom.

Those who had survived would live to fight again. Those who had fallen would be reborn.

As it always was. As it always would be.

They knew nothing of that, these dark children who sat sullen in their fleeing ships. There was no victory in their eyes, no defeat. Only hate.

They might have been soldiers once.

Once - when dispossession had made them vengeful.

Once - when being hunted had made them desperate.

No more.

It was no fault of theirs. It had been _done_ to them. Bereft of place, power, purpose, they needed an enemy to be directed towards. And they had been given one.

Just like she had, so long ago - and she knew here was only one way that path could end.

Thus she despised those who used them. Detested those who whispered promises of refuge, illusions of power into the ears of these children. Made them complacent. Subservient. Cruel. Weak.

Yet she was no fool. She had seen **their** fleets, a mighty armada spanning uncounted stars. **They** were not a foe she could hope to match. Not yet. Not alone. And not when she did not yet know how or why the humans of this age despoiled her own flesh and blood so.

Let **them** think her their attack dog. Let **them** overlook her, as **they** always had.

She could wait. She would wait.

Such was the privilege of those who could hear the song of the stars.

In the meantime, she occupy herself with smaller things.

Like... **this morsel** , perhaps.

It was but a flash, a fragment taken from the very last of her little ones' battles. They had all been lost, so the image was but a part of the whole. But it was familiar. In taste, in smell, in sound...in time.

She knew **this person** \- **these people** , once, though she knew not their faces.

...Very interesting.

Yes. She would think on this morsel, and all it portended.

" _Till we meet again, then."_


End file.
